


Red-Blooded Blues

by sysrae



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Biphobia, Bisexual Dean, Blow Jobs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feelings, Gay Panic, Jock Dean, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Mary Winchester is a BAMF, Potentially underage, Poverty, Prostitution, Punk Castiel, Recreational Drug Use, Shower Sex, Suicidal Ideation, Suicide Attempt, They're seventeen so YMMV, Underage Drinking, casturbation, handjobs, nothing graphic, random stucky feels, sort of, the fluffiest fucking ending I've ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-03 14:27:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 16
Words: 28,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2854178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sysrae/pseuds/sysrae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel Novak is a poor kid from a bad neighbourhood. Dean Winchester is a rich jock who maybe cares a bit more about Cas than he's willing to admit. You know how it goes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It's been a shitty month in the Novak household, but this takes the fucking cake.

'He took it,' says Cas, staring dumbly at the empty biscuit tin.

'You don't know that,' says Alfie, the effort at loyalty straining his thin child's voice. 'It could've, um. It could've, could've blown away, like if the lid was off and the window was open and, like – or, oh! A bird! It could've been a bird, you know, like maybe a crow got in, or –'

'It wasn't a crow, and it wasn't the wind. He took it.' Cas's hands clench into fists. 'He fucking – Jesus _fucking_ Christ, Alfie –' and almost, _almost_ , Cas says something unforgivable, like _why did you let him in here in the first place?_ , but Alfie's eyes are wide and scared, and he's only eight, and yeah, their dad's a mooching, absentee deadbeat, but up until forty seconds ago, Cas still didn't think he was capable of something like _this_ , like taking the fucking rent money two days before it's due. Shit, Cas probably would've let him in, too, though unlike Alfie, he at least knows better than to leave their dad unattended.

But Cas wasn't here, and Alfie was, and now the fucking money's gone, and they are so unbelievably screwed.

'It's OK,' Cas says. He shuts his eyes, breathes steadily through his nose. 'It's OK, Alfie. Really. I'll take care of it.'

'But you've got school today –'

'Alfie.' Cas makes himself look at his little brother, makes himself smile and put a hand on his bony shoulder. 'I'll take care of it, I promise. I'll pick up an extra shift tonight, and some guys at school owe me money, we'll be –' he gulps, swallowing the panic in his own throat, forcing the fake smile wider, '– just fine.'

'You're sure?' says Alfie, like he badly wants to believe it, but doesn't quite.

Cas ruffles his hair and drops a kiss on his brother's forehead. 'I'm sure,' he says. 'Now go get your bag and meet me out front. Don't wanna miss the bus!'

'OK,' says Alfie, and hurries off, leaving Cas alone with the empty tin and an even emptier feeling.

 

*

 

'Hey, Winchester! You coming out tonight or what?'

'Wouldn't miss it,' Dean says, grinning at Roy as he slams his locker. 'Usual meet up?'

'Course. You got your ID?'

'This time, yeah.'

They share a laugh, and Dean's about to tell Roy he'll see him later when, of all people, Castiel Novak swings into his path – into Roy's path, not Dean's – and smirks them both to a standstill.

'Roy Cross,' he drawls, an arm cocked against the lockers. 'Just the man I wanted to see.'

'Wish I could say the same,' says Roy. Dean laughs as a reflex, because Roy being a jerk is par for the course, but Castiel glances sharply at Dean, and his blue stare is barbed as a fish-hook. Dean blushes hotly for no good reason, scuffing the floor with his shoe as Roy sighs. 

'What do you want, Novak?'

'You owe me fifty bucks,' says Castiel, and Dean jerks his head up again; this is news to him. 'I've come to collect.'

'Haven't got it,' says Roy, which Dean knows is a flat-out lie. Roy lifts his chin and smiles a challenge. 'Try me again on Monday.'

A muscle works in Castiel's jaw. The planes of his face are flat and sharp-edged, and it's not like Dean really knows the guy, but there's something off about him now, this bruised sort of look to his eyes and cheeks, and when he says, in a tight, quiet voice, 'I need it today, Roy,' Dean doesn't think he's kidding.

'I'll spot you,' he blurts, before he can stop himself.

Whip-fast, Castiel looks at him again, but Roy's the one who speaks, laughing like he did the time Dean tried to hurdle a park bench drunk and ended up breaking his wrist: like he's a goofy dumbass who can't be trusted to tie his own shoes without supervision. 'You'll _what_?'

'I'll spot you,' Dean says, his neck and ears burning. 'You don't have the cash to pay him now, but I do, and he needs it, so I'll spot you.'

'You don't –' Castiel starts, but Roy cuts him off, arms folded as he looks at Dean.

'Now why the fuck would you do a thing like that?' he says, his smile a little sharper than it was before. 'Fuck this guy, Dean. I'm not paying him shit.'

'I wrote your paper!' Castiel says, outraged. 'We had a fucking _agreement_ , Roy –'

'Yeah, well, you only got me a 91,' says Roy, 'and I wanted a 95. Deal's off, Novak. Suck it up and take it like a man.'

Ugly silence blooms between them. Castiel looks furious, and Roy just _smiles_ , and Dean feels sick, because Roy being jerk is one thing, but this is something else.

'Roy, c'mon man,' Dean says, wincing at how fake his attempt at cheerfulness sounds, 'don't be like that.'

'Don't be like what, Winchester? Better than him?' Roy snorts. 'He's poor white trash, and everyone knows it.' He turns back to Castiel, and the cruelty in his voice is unmistakable. 'You hear that, Novak? You want money, go tell your skank mommy to spread her legs and –'

Dean isn't quite sure how it happens, except that it does: he punches Roy hard in the face, knuckles cracking as blood bursts from his nose, and all three of them freeze. Castiel's mouth hangs open, and Dean stares at him like something in that sharp, smudged face can explain why he just turned on his buddy of two years over an _ad mominem_ attack on _Castiel fucking Novak_ , who wears safety pins in his ears and ripped thrift shop jeans and only comes to football games to smoke weed under the bleachers.

'What,' growls Roy, a shocked hand probing his bloody nose, 'the actual fuck, Winchester?'

'Um,' says Dean, who doesn't have an answer ready, and can't think of one in the split second it takes Roy to roar and tackle him back against the lockers, punching a punishing one-two combo straight to his stomach. Dean wheezes like he's going to throw up, and then Roy shakes him and storms away, kicking the corner locker before vanishing from sight. Dean blinks up at Castiel and slide-falls onto his ass, too stunned to do anything except gasp for air and wonder, in some blank, panicked part of his mind, if that really just happened.

'Shit,' breathes Castiel. He looks at Dean, opens his mouth, shuts it. Swallows. ' _Shit,_ ' he says again, and edges closer, dropping down on his haunches. 'You, uh. You OK?'

'Fine,' Dean croaks, and forces himself upright before Castiel's outstretched hand can brush his knee.

Castiel rises slowly, squinting at him, face unreadable. 'You didn't have to do that.'

Dean holds his ribs and winces. 'No shit, Sherlock!'

'So why did you?'

'What?'

'Why did you?' Castiel says again – intently, blue gaze pinning Dean to the locker. 'Roy Cross has been an abrasive asshat with anger management issues since the first day of school, but you pick now to call him on it?'

'So?'

' _So?_ ' And suddenly Castiel is up in his face, crowding him back against the locker, forearms braced on either side of Dean's head. 'What the fuck do you _want_ from me, Dean? You want me to make it up to you? You want a favour? _What?_ '

Dean goes completely blank. His mouth his dry, and Castiel is so damn close, their noses are almost touching. His cheeks are flushed, and the collar of his too-big shirt is skewing sideways, showing a tan expanse of collarbone that Dean has a sudden, absurd urge to bite, and oh, fuck, _fuck_ –

'Bail off me, man!' He shoves Castiel in the chest, heart thumping wildly. 'Jesus, do I need a fucking reason? I'm sorry I bothered!'

And with that, he turns and walks away, his throat tight with a confusing snarl of anger, shame and lust. 


	2. Chapter 2

 Cas collects a hundred bucks from two other students, and resolutely doesn't think about the additional fifty he should've had from Roy and almost had from Dean, because that way lies madness. He doesn't think about bright green eyes and short, spiked hair a shade too dark to be properly blonde, or the way Dean looks with his lips half-parted, panting against the lockers, and he especially doesn't think about Dean Winchester punching Roy Cross in the face, because there's no possible answer to the _why_ of that question that doesn't lead to trouble. Dean Winchester, Cas decides, is a goddamn distraction – and not in a pleasant way, like cat videos on YouTube, but in a dangerous, get-your-heart-eaten way, like the glowing barbel-lure on a deep sea fish. He's rich and athletic and so fucking straight you could use him as a spirit level, and Castiel absolutely will not go there, will not even finish the thought he won't admit to having, because today of all days, he cannot fucking afford to.

He skips last period, changes into his work clothes, hops the bus and wheedles an extra shift at the restaurant out of Pam, who knows by now that he never breaks schedule without a damn good reason, and for five straight hours, Castiel smiles and laughs and sweats for every cent of every tip. When a middle-aged woman from a giggling, champagne-tipsy table gropes his ass, Cas nearly drops the tray he's carrying, forces himself to straighten and wink instead of swatting her hand away, and nearly cries when her party still only tips him five percent, because he _needs_ this, they have no idea how much, and god, _god_ –

'Easy, kiddo.' Pam lays a gentle hand on his shoulder. 'Deep breaths, that's it. Your time is up.'

Cas sucks in air and looks at the clock. It's just gone eight and he started at three, and he still doesn't have enough to cover the rent. 'I can work longer,' he says, trying to keep his voice steady. 'You know I'm good for it, Pam – I can stay all night.'

'Sorry, Cas.' She slides back in behind the bar. 'I already bumped Max's shift to give you this much, and he needs the money, too. Besides –' she nods at the door, where a cross-looking Max is hurrying in, '– he's already here.'

Cas leaves his apron and takes his cash. He gets home at eight thirty, where he finds Alfie doing his homework at the kitchen table and eating microwaved mac and cheese.

'Mom went out,' says Alfie, instead of hello.

'Who with?' says Cas, a clench in his gut as he puts his earnings – a lot for a day, but still too little – into the biscuit tin.

'Jerry, I think.'

'Is he the one with the moustache?'

'No, that's Bill. Jerry has the lisp.'

'Right.'

'He's nice,' says Alfie, after a moment. 'I like him.'

'Oh.'

'Are you going out, too?'

Cas stares at the fridge, not trusting himself to turn around. 'I was thinking about it, yeah. Is that all right with you?'

'It's OK,' says Alfie. 'I got homework to do.'

'I don't like leaving you on your own.'

'I'll be fine.'

'You're sure?'

'I'm not a baby.'

'I know,' says Cas, and goes to get cleaned up.

He keeps the shower cold and short, then changes into his combat boots, a pair of black jeans with nothing underneath, a faded Clash tee and a blue-and-black plaid flannel, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and pinned in place. He puts on mascara and smudges it dark, until his eyes pop, then loops his cowskull pendant over his head, the silver charm knocking against his chest. One by one, he replaces the hoops and pins in his ears with bars and studs, then puts on his heaviest silver rings – they're cheap, but they emphasise his hands, and if he spins them around, the lumpen designs are solid enough to core a punch, like impromptu knuckledusters.

He puts lube and condoms in his back pocket, and hopes he doesn't need them.

And then he grabs his fake ID, takes a long swig of the ratshit bourbon he keeps in his room for emergencies, gives Alfie a parting hug and starts the long, slow walk to the bar.

 

*

 

Roy doesn't speak to Dean for the rest of the day, but by the time school lets out, it's pretty damn clear he's been talking to everyone else. As to what he's been saying, though – that's a different question, and if the poorly-muffled laughter that chases Dean across the car park is anything to go by, it's not one he's sure he wants answered. He drives home in a funk, alternately furious at himself for having intervened, at Roy for being a dick, and at Castiel for ever having approached them in the first place. _Especially_ at Castiel, because Dean stuck his fucking neck out for the guy, and what does he get as thanks? Suspicion and fucking outrage, is what, and if it weren't for the fact that Dean's traitor brain is now supplying him, in cringeworthy detail, with a replay of every time either he or Roy or one of their other stupid friends has given Castiel a reason to think of kindness as a trap, he'd be livid.

Instead, he just feels wrung out and sad, and how is this his life? When the fuck did he turn into one of those bullying jocks from a B-grade teen comedy about plucky geeks, and why has he only just noticed? Jesus, it's not like he gets off on power or anything; bigging himself up to flirt with cheerleaders and teasing kids like Garth Fitzgerald doesn't count, everyone does that, except that _everyone_ really only means Roy and the others, and it's not like he didn't know the guy was a jerk – hell, he's thought it often enough – but he also thought it was OK, somehow, like there were jerks and _jerks_ , and Roy wasn't really the second kind because Dean wouldn't be friends with him if he was, only he is, and now Dean's having a personal fucking crisis on his way home from school, and _why the fuck does he want to put his mouth on Castiel Novak?_

He brakes in the driveway, gripping the wheel long after the engine shuts off. _I'm not gay,_ is his first thought, followed quickly by, _but maybe I'm something else_. Shit, that's a thing, isn't it? Bisexuality? Liking men and women? But he's nearly eighteen, there's no way he wouldn't have figured it out before now, embarrassing locker-room boners and getting turned on by both actors in straight porn doesn't count, that's just –

Shit. That totally counts.

Dean goes inside in a daze, ignores the ongoing argument between Sam and Jo over who's beating who at MarioKart and locks himself in his room, where he flops back on the bed and stares at the ceiling for what feels like minutes, but turns out to be hours.

'You heading out tonight, son?' his dad asks over dinner, and Dean realises that he has absolutely no idea how to explain that he isn't without either bringing up Roy or inviting unwanted questions about his uncharacteristic behaviour, and so he nods and says, 'Yeah, of course. Can I take the Impala?'

'Not a chance in hell,' says his dad, but he smiles like he's happy to have been asked, and somehow Dean gets through the rest of the meal without incriminating himself.

Of course, the downside is that he now has to go out, alone, when all he really wants to do is sit in his room and try to figure this out. He makes a token effort at getting dressed up – new jeans, a green Henley, the brown bomber jacket he got for Christmas – and heads out, his mother's injunction to _drive safely_ ringing in his ears.

So that's what he does: drives slowly, safely, in the opposite direction to where he knows Roy and the others will be, where the streets are unfamiliar and the buildings run down, and all at once, he thinks, _Fuck it_.

Dean pulls over, parks, and heads into the first bar he finds. The bouncer doesn't even try to card him; just rolls his eyes and grunts. Inside, it's all pool tables and classic rock, which Dean likes, and when he orders a beer, the bartender grins and complies.

And it's... well, it's not exactly great, but it's not bad, either; there are probably far worse places to sit and re-evaluate your life. Not that Dean's having much luck on that front; he's still hung up on the question of why Castiel Novak is the one who set him off. They've been in school together since second grade, and in all that time, they've never once hung out. Castiel was always a weird kid – he was short and chubby right up until the second year of middle school, and then puberty did him a fucking solid, melting the awkward right off him as he shot up into nearly six feet of long, sharp bones and runner's muscles – and that, right there, is the fucking problem: Dean _knows_ this stuff, like part of him has been subconsciously watching the guy and taking notes for the better part of a decade, and how fucking creepy is _that_?

'You want another one?' the bartender asks, when Dean knocks back the last of his beer, and even though he's driving, it's turning into that kind of night, so why the fuck not?

'Sure,' he says, and ends up drinking the second one even faster, the better to try and cope with the realisation that he spends the better part of each English class transfixed by Castiel's hands. _Goddamit_ , he thinks, and the flush in his cheeks is only partly due to the alcohol.

'Bathrooms?' he asks the bartender, who grins and points him towards a darkened hallway.

The door he wants is the last one on the left, and far enough from the bar that the music is muffled. The walls are all wood, and the door is, too, and Dean pushes in without a second thought.

And instantly wishes he hadn't.

There's a big guy getting blown up against the sink, grunting obscenely as he grips the dark hair of the girl – no, not a girl, not a girl _at all_ – who's sucking him off, and his eyes are closed but the boy's aren't, and oh, Jesus, fuck, they're bright blue, _bright fucking blue_ , and they flick to Dean and widen in a horrified moment of recognition that seems to stretch on forever, because Dean Winchester just walked in on Castiel Novak blowing a biker in a seedy bar bathroom, mouth stretched wide and palms braced on his thighs, and there's no air left in the room at all, and the world is upside down. 


	3. Chapter 3

Dean neither flees nor speaks, apparently rooted to the spot, and for six full seconds, the look on his face is the single worst thing that's ever happened to Castiel. _This is the way the world ends,_ he thinks madly – and then the biker groans and pulls out his dick and comes on Cas's face, having agreed to pay an extra twenty bucks for the privilege, only Cas had managed to forget that fact, which is bad enough, but _then_ he goes completely off-menu and slaps Cas hard while still holding his hair, slurring out something that might be _bitch_ and might be _baby_ , and then he lets go, and Cas's neck wrenches, and all he can do is kneel there, stunned, while the biker calmly puts himself back in his pants and rinses the spunk off his slapping-hand, and only then, at the apex of Castiel's utter humiliation, does the guy pull out his wallet and drop the promised notes in his lap, a dismal flutter of green.

'Next up?' he leers cheerfully, and Castiel freezes when he realises the question is directed at _Dean_ , who's _still in the fucking doorway, Jesus Christ_ , and Dean turns all the colours of sunset as the biker says, 'He's worth the wait.'

And then he pushes out past Dean and back to the bar, and Cas is still just kneeling there with come on his face, and that's when it hits him like a truck, like a goddamn axe to the heart, that there's no other reason for Dean to be here at all except that he _is_ up next, and he doesn't know whether to laugh or cry or throw up, because he's still short the money and if it's not Dean, it'll have to be someone else, so why not cross that one last line? It's not like he can get any lower than this; or maybe he can, and he just doesn't care any more.

Standing up is the bravest thing he's ever done.

He's shaking so hard he can barely turn the tap, and the silence as he washes his face is like broken glass rimed with frost.

'Castiel –' Dean starts, voice strangled, and Cas's body flushes and freezes and thaws again, and before he can think to stop himself, he barks out, ' _Wait your fucking turn!_ '

Dean makes a noise like he's been stabbed. 'Jesus,' he whispers. 'No, Cas, _no_ , I swear, I'm not here for – I wouldn't do that, I wouldn't –'

'Wouldn't what?' he snaps. 'Lower yourself? Wouldn't _watch_? Or should I fucking charge you for the show?' He rinses his mouth out, wipes his face and stoops to pick up his money, wadding the notes in his pocket like crumpled receipts, and he's too damn angry for tears, but when he straightens up again, he's vibrating at the frequency of something like rage and a lot like pain, and Dean Winchester just fucking _stands_ there, and that's when an even more godawful possibility occurs to Cas, and all the blood drains from his face.

'You knew I was here,' he says, and it comes out a rasp. 'Oh, _fuck_ , you fucking – you _knew_ , you're going to tell –' He chokes off the sentence, tries to smile, tries for some of his trademark, I-don't-give-a-shit cockiness but manages only a scraped facsimile of it, '– and you know what? I don't fucking care, Dean, you can't hurt me with this, you can't hurt me more than he did, so blackmail away, or laugh, or whatever it is you came here to do, because I can't deal with your petty jock bullshit right now, so just – just fucking _say_ something, would you?' His voice cracks. 'What do you _want_?'

And Dean says, very softly, 'Are you OK?'

Castiel stares at him, lost. 'Am I OK?' he echoes. 'Am I _OK_?'

'He hit you,' says Dean, and there's a shake in his voice that sounds almost angry. 'When he – he _hit_ you, Cas.'

'Since when do you call me that?' Cas snaps. 'Since when do you call me _anything_?'

'Oh, like _that's_ the fucking issue?' Dean shoots back. 'Your _name_?'

'The _issue_ ,' Cas grits out, 'is why you're even _here_. Did someone put you up to it? Did you figure it out yourself? Did you think –' he surges forward, grabs Dean's shirt in his fist, '– that it would be fucking _funny_?'

'I didn't know!' Dean shouts. He grabs at Cas's shirt in turn, until they're equal parts pulling back and pulling in, a two-man tug of war. ' _I didn't know_ , OK? I just came in to piss, and I didn't – Jesus, you were just _there_ , and I don't know why you're doing this, but I couldn't –'

'You _don't know why_?' Cas hisses, jerking Dean closer. 'For _money_ , you entitled, oblivious _asshole!'_

'But you –'

'So help me god, Dean, if you ask me why don't I get a normal job – you don't even _work_ , and I work my fucking _ass_ off, but my dad took the money we had for rent and I needed to make it up fast, so don't you fucking judge me, OK? I do what I have to!' And he shoves Dean away from him, hard and sharp, and storms out before he says something he really regrets.

 

*

 

Dean's chest burns where Cas's knuckles grazed him through his shirt. He stands there, feeling his heart in his ears, and counts ten beats before he comes to his senses and chases after him, reaching the bar in time to glimpse a plaid shirt vanishing through the front door. He dashes past the pool tables, barely avoids crashing into the bouncer, and then he's outside, and Castiel is stalking off up the street with his shoulders hunched, and Dean bolts after him, huffing in the chill air as he overtakes Cas and skids to a halt in front of him.

'How much?' he blurts, because his brain and mouth are apparently disconnected, and Castiel goes rigid.

'You really want to buy me, Dean?' he says, voice low and dangerous.

Dean winces. 'That's not – shit, that came out wrong. I mean, how much do you still need? For the rent,' he adds, when Castiel looks blank.

Quietly, Cas says, 'Four hundred and fifty dollars.'

'And you were –' Dean stumbles over the question, '– I mean, if I hadn't, uh, if you were still – could you have, um –'

'No,' says Cas. 'Not tonight, anyway. Not in there.' He hugs himself, looks intently down at the sidewalk. 'If they wanted to fuck me, maybe. But there's better places for that.'

'Have you ever –?'

Cas's head snaps up, and for an instant, he looks so hurt and furious, he's almost inhuman. But then he slumps a little, and says, hoarsely, 'Twice.'

Dean's stomach twists. He knows he shouldn't ask, but part of him can't not. 'Does it hurt?'

A ghost of a smile moves Castiel's lips. 'You mean, does it hurt to get fucked in general, or just when someone's paying?'

'When someone's paying,' Dean says – and then, blushing hotly, 'or both, I guess.'

'Why? You curious, Dean?'

It's teasing, like he expects a denial, and Dean surprises both of them by admitting, 'A little.'

'Oh.' Cas blinks. 'It depends, I guess.'

'On what?'

The smile goes from ghost to zombie. 'On whether they want you to hurt.'

'Oh,' says Dean, and Castiel sighs, like he always knew the conversation was going to circle back to this point, and tightens his grip on his ribs.

'Look, Dean – I don't mean to be rude, but this is hard enough without you pitying me. If you've got some magical rich boy method of earning four hundred and fifty bucks in a day that doesn't involve sex work, I'm all ears, but otherwise –'

'I can give it to you.'

Castiel stills. 'I'm sorry?'

'I can give you the money. Right now, we can go to an ATM, I can use my card –'

'You're serious.' The look on Cas's face is almost physically painful. 'You – why –?'

'Because I want to. Because I can.' He takes a shuddering breath and forces himself to look Cas in the eye. 'Because you're better than anyone who'd buy you.'

Almost imperceptibly, Castiel starts to shake. 'I can't pay you back,' he says, and his voice is so fucking raw, it makes Dean ache. 'I can try, I _swear_ I'll try, but I can't – it's too much to owe, I'd have to go back, I'd have to – and if I'm going to do that, I might as well just cut out the middleman, you know?'

'I know,' Dean says, and it comes out a whisper. 'Please, Cas?'

'Jesus.' Castiel almost laughs. 'I – yes, OK? Jesus, I don't have a fucking choice. Beggars can't and wishes and horses, all that fuckery. Yes. Please. Thank you. Shit.' He laughs again, and it crinkles his eyes and nose and mouth, and out of nowhere, Dean remembers the time Cas set off firecrackers during football practice; how he laughed his fucking ass off at the guys who freaked; how he kept on smoking a joint when he ran away, taking thin drags and sprinting between gales of laughter; how he'd still been faster than everyone who chased him, even though they were varsity and he wasn't.

How fucking beautiful he looked.

'Good,' Dean breathes, and something in him breaks, and something in him hopes. 'Let's do that, then.'


	4. Chapter 4

Castiel stares at the notes in his hand, and tries very hard not to cry. The whole way to the ATM, a part of him was waiting for the other shoe to drop; for Dean to change his mind or laugh, for the prank to be revealed. But all Dean does is hand him the cash – exactly four hundred and fifty dollars, counting each note into Castiel's palm like he wants to make sure Cas knows how much he's getting – and stand back, blushing faintly in the sodium glow of the streetlights.

'You can, uh. Take your time,' Dean says. 'With the, with the paying. But if you can't, that's OK, too.'

'Thank you,' Cas says again, and it comes out a whisper. Hands shaking, he puts the cash away in his wallet, feeling how much thicker it is with money inside. He wants to say something else, but all he can do is stare at Dean, and Dean stares back, the two of them equally lost for words – and then, because he's exactly that sad, Cas almost leans in to kiss him. His head moves of its own accord, and then he jerks back a half-second later, face burning, because _Jesus fucking Christ_ , he just had some other guy's dick in his mouth, and even if Dean was into guys, Cas is hardly an appealing prospect.

'I, uh,' he flounders, trying to cover the silence. 'I should, I should – go. Home.'

Dean blinks. 'Oh. You got a ride?'

'No. I walked here.'

'You –' Dean ducks his head, staring at the concrete. 'You want a lift? I mean, for safety,' he adds in a rush, at Cas's shocked inhale, 'I mean, you're carrying cash, it's late, if you got jumped or something –'

'Shit,' says Cas, because knowing his life, that's exactly the sort of thing that would end up happening to him, 'yeah, that would be – thanks. Again.'

Dean laughs, a breathless sound. 'Don't mention it.'

They walk to the car in silence, and once the door unlocks, Cas slides into the passenger seat alongside Dean. He feels lightheaded, and even though it's warmer in the car than on the street, his hands are shaking so badly that he can't get his seatbelt to buckle. He swears and tries again, the metal tab tapping scratchily on black plastic, but it just won't click, and suddenly it hits him that he's safe, he's _safe_ , he doesn't have to let anyone fuck him for money, and a sob wrenches out of his throat before he can stop it.

'Shit,' he gasps, palms braced on the dashboard as he starts to cry, 'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry –'

'It's OK,' says Dean, sounding mildly alarmed – and then, more gently, 'It's OK, Cas.'

'It's not,' Cas gulps. He shuts his eyes, hating how pathetic he must look – how pathetic he _is_ – and struggles to get himself under control. He wipes his eyes with the back of his wrist, sucking in breath, heart rabbiting in his chest. 'God, this is not OK, because _I_ am not OK, OK?' He lifts his head and looks at him. 'Jesus, Dean, you just gave me four hundred and fifty fucking dollars. Who even does something like that?'

Dean opens his mouth, but doesn't answer. His half-parted lips are an invitation, and Castiel has to look away to stop himself from taking it, because it was one thing to have private fantasies about Dean Winchester when he was a distant, untouchable asshat, but it's quite another when Cas is breaking down in his car after being thoroughly white knighted. God, it's like he's in a rent boy version of _Pretty Woman_ right now, and why is Dean being so nice to him? Uncomplicated kindness doesn't happen in Castiel Novak's life; in fact, he'd go so far as to call it a fucking tenet that _good things aren't free or simple_ , and maybe that's why he starts talking again, the words coming out in a nervous torrent.

'Look, I just need – I just need you to understand something here, OK?' He grips the edge of the seat, the leather biting into his fingers. 'I'm not a whore, I'm not always – god, it's not what I _am_ , but I have to, sometimes – I wish I didn't, Jesus, I wish I'd never – but last winter Alfie was sick and there were bills, and I just – this isn't me being ungrateful, but you need to know I might – if it gets bad again, if something happens, I'd have to –'

'You'd do it again,' says Dean, softly.

Cas jerks his head up and looks at him, at eyes that have no business being so stupidly green, and makes himself say it, the admission sharp on his tongue. 'You haven't rescued me, all right? Not forever; not if something goes wrong again, and it _always fucking does_.' His voice breaks on the words, but he ploughs on regardless. 'So if this is, I don't know, some sort of feel-good saviour trip for you – if you're doing this so I'll stop, so you can go home and feel like you saved me or some shit – I need you to know, I need to be straight with you now, because I can't –'

And that's when Dean leans in and kisses him.

 

*

 

It's just a press of lips, his fingers ghosting the skin of Cas's cheek, but fire shoots through Dean like it's more than that. He doesn't want to stop, but Cas goes tense and still, not moving to reciprocate, and Dean wrenches back, horrified at himself, because holy shit, he _really_ shouldn't have done that. He gulps, running a hand through his hair, and Castiel just stares at him, wide-eyed and shocky, like he's never seen him before.

'What,' Cas breathes, 'was that?'

Dean winces. 'A kiss?'

'A kiss.'

'Yeah.'

'You kissed me.'

'Yeah?'

'But you're straight!' says Cas, and three little words shouldn't feel so much like being punched, but they _do_. The hurt must show on his face, and now it's Castiel's turn to wince, his tone gone hesitant as he asks, 'Well, aren't you?'

'I thought I was,' says Dean, gulping. 'But I guess, uh... bisexual?' He's never said it aloud before, and he hates that his own uncertainty makes it sound like a question; hates that part of him is braced for Cas to laugh and say _that isn't really a thing, you're either one way or the other,_ which is word for word what his dad once yelled at the TV during an episode of _House_.

But Castiel doesn't laugh. Instead, he says, 'Oh,' his voice oddly small, and hunches in on himself. 'So, you... you do want me, then? Like that?'

'Yes,' says Dean, reflexive in his honesty, and then goes cold all over as he realises what Cas is really asking. 'Wait, no – fuck! No, not like that, I didn't mean, I wouldn't – shit. _Shit!_ '

Awkward silence blooms between them. Dean's stomach twists. He wants Castiel so badly, but there's four hundred and fifty dollars that says he has no right to push the issue; not unless he wants to feel like a client. Forcing himself to look away, he turns the key in the ignition and stares ahead at the road.

'You live on Walker, right?'

He hears Cas startle at the change in topic, glances over just in time to see him nod. He still looks spooked, and Dean doesn't blame him. 'Yeah,' he says, thickly. 'Near the intersection with Regan.'

'Right,' says Dean, and starts to drive.

It's excruciating. Neither of them speaks again, the tension thick as smoke. Dean discards a dozen different apologies, a dozen variations on _I wasn't trying to buy you_ , but can't think of a single one that Castiel might believe. When they finally pull to a halt, his mouth is dry with guilt.

The silence stretches out like elastic, then snaps.

'Thanks for the lift,' says Cas. He doesn't meet Dean's gaze, his long, thin fingers toying with the seatbelt he never fastened. One beat; two. 'I can give it back, if you want.'

'What?'

'The money. You can have it back. Or I can suck you off.' He looks at Dean, his expression unreadable. 'I'd make it good –'

'Get out,' Dean growls. He's suddenly furious again – at Cas, at Roy, at _everything_. His knuckles whiten around the steering wheel. 'Just keep the money and get the fuck out of my car.'

Cas doesn't need to be told twice; he moves so fast he stumbles, almost falling into the street as he slams the door shut behind him. Numb, Dean watches him jog across the street to a ramshackle house, and pointedly doesn't think about Castiel Novak down on his knees, his mouth stretched wide around Dean's cock –

He drives away in a screech of tires.

 _Fuck my life,_ he thinks. _Fuck everything._

 


	5. Chapter 5

The house is silent when Cas gets in, his mother's bedroom open and empty. He heads to the kitchen on autopilot, empties the contents of his wallet into the biscuit tin, then goes to check on Alfie. His little brother is fast asleep, and Cas spends almost two full minutes watching him from the doorway, his thin body bunched under Superman sheets they bought at the thrift store. His room is strewn with robot toys and library books, a herd of My Little Ponies gathered on the pink and yellow desk Cas found on the curb and fixed for him. There's an innocence to it that cracks his heart, and he lurches back down the hallway, viciously shedding his clothes as a proxy for the skin he wants to rip from his body, but can't. Half-naked, he stumbles into his room, tears off his boots and rings and jeans, and grabs his bottle of ratshit bourbon, coughing against a sob as he necks the contents.

The look on Dean's _face_.

He wants to burn the whole fucking night right out of him, that stupid kiss as well as the taste of cock and come, and somehow he makes it into the bathroom, turning the shower on just in time to cover the wrenching sound that strangles past his lips. Not that anyone's awake to hear him anyway; not that it fucking matters. Shaking, he turns the hot on full and slides down the tiles, knees up as he sits beneath the spray. The bourbon tastes like antiseptic and bad decisions, which it is, and he drinks the lot like it's absolution, or punishment, or both. The water goes cold overhead, and he fumbles the taps off on the fifth try, but he's drunk as fuck and the tiles are slippy, and when he tries to stand, he falls straight back down again, crashing sideways half in, half out of the shower.

He blacks out, only waking to shiver and pull a towel over himself.

The next thing he knows, Alfie's standing over him, frantically shouting his name as he shakes Cas's shoulders. Castiel blinks at him, bleary and stiff and cold as hell, and swats feebly at his hands.

' _Cas_ ,' Alfie croaks, and shit, the kid's _crying_ , fat tears rolling down his cheeks. 'You stupid, you fucking –'

'Language,' Cas slurs, and Alfie makes a noise that might be laughter. Shakily, Cas goes to sit up, which is a tactical error, given the state he's in. Groaning with the sudden, savage onset of nausea, he lunges over and somehow makes it to the toilet, throwing up everything in his stomach and then some. Dry heaves spasm through his back, and Alfie just stands there and pats him through it, which is fucked up enough that Cas weeps a little himself.

When it's finally over, he struggles up to the sink and brushes his teeth with three times the usual amount of toothpaste, wincing at the sight of himself in the mirror. There's a purpling bruise on his cheek where the last client slapped him, dark circles under both his eyes, and a blue-grey pallor to his face that makes him look like a corpse. He feels like he's got the flu – and maybe he does, in addition to being hungover; he's the dumbass who slept wet and naked on the bathroom floor – and there's an ugly, tender swelling on his ribs where he landed on the raised edge of the shower stall, two thin blood-crusted cuts standing out against a bruise that's almost as dark as the one on his face. It pulls when he moves, and Cas bites back a whimper as he bends down, grabs the discarded towel and wraps it around his hips.

'You got drunk again,' Alfie accuses. He gives an angry hiccup, wiping his eyes on his sleeve, and glares at Cas with all the wrath an eight-year-old can muster.

Cas winces. 'Yeah, I did. I'm sorry.' He crouches down to Alfie's height, hissing in pain, and adds, 'But I got the money we need.'

Alfie's eyes go wide. 'All of it?'

'All of it.' He puts a hand on his brother's shoulder, as much to steady himself as to offer reassurance. 'And I'm going to take it to Mr Adler before school, just to be safe.'

'Then you'd better hurry,' Alfie says, reverting to his usual practicality. 'You're already running late.' And he flashes his plastic Pokemon watch to prove it.

' _Fuck_ ,' says Cas, and hobbles off to get dressed. Pulling on his jeans and boots especially is torture: there's no way to do it that doesn't feel like he's being stabbed. Still, he manages, and in a minor miracle, he gets himself, his bag and the rent money out the door inside of fifteen minutes. Alfie is already waiting, standing impatiently on the stoop as Castiel shoves his key in their sticky lock, his shaking fingers making a tricky process even trickier.

'Mom didn't come home last night,' says Alfie, into the silence.

The lock clicks shut, and Castiel rests his head on the door. 'I know. I saw her room.'

'You think she's OK?'

'It's mom. She'll be fine.'

'You're not fine, though,' Alfie says, and Castiel grips the key so hard, the teeth cut into his palm.

'I will be,' he grits out, trying to mean it. He steps back from the door and meets his brother's gaze. 'I had a rough night –' which is putting it fucking mildly '– but I'll live. Promise.'

'You better,' says Alfie, and storms off towards the bus stop.

 

*

 

Dean doesn't care about Castiel Novak.

Nope.

Not even a little.

He didn't lie awake for hours last night, thinking about all the different, better things that could've happened between them, stroking himself and coming so hard he fell asleep the second he'd wiped himself clean. He sure as hell didn't dream about Cas, either, didn't wake up with his name on his lips, didn't touch the bruises Roy left and think how they'd been worth it. He doesn't crane his head in the hallways, looking for the telltale flash of black hair, blue eyes and safety pin earrings, and he's definitely not counting down the hours until English, where he knows for sure Cas is meant to be, because _Dean doesn't care, OK?_

And besides which, he's got his own problems.

'You really punched _Roy_?' says Bela, gleefully scandalised. 'Over _Castiel Novak's honour?_ '

'His mother's, technically,' Dean mumbles. He stares at his lunch tray, idly poking his uneaten food with a fork. Until Bela came and joined him, he'd been sitting alone, which was something of a first for him; Roy and the others are over at their usual table, but Dean couldn't stomach the thought of joining them, and even if he'd wanted to, he wouldn't have been welcome.

'Dean, Dean.' Bela sighs and stretches. She's always reminded him of his aunt's Abyssinian cat: tawny, haughty, lithe, and liable to bite when rubbed the wrong way, but still just a bit magnetic. 'You're not even going to try and make it up to him, are you?'

Almost, Dean thinks she means Cas, and has to bite back a deeply inappropriate answer. 'Why should I?' he says instead. 'Roy's the jerk in all this.'

'Roy's always been a jerk,' says Bela, bitterly. The remark is uncannily close to what Cas said yesterday. 'What makes this so different?'

'I dunno,' says Dean. He keeps his eyes on the table, because he _does_ know, and is starting to wish he didn't. 'I just – god, I'm just fucking sick of everything, you know? I'm sick of acting like a fucking douchebag just because I can get away with it, I'm sick of laughing at Roy's stupid jokes, I'm sick of pretending –' He snaps his mouth shut, jaw clenching as he stares across the room to his usual table. As though he can sense the scrutiny, Roy looks up and meets his gaze, sneers, sniggers, flips him off, and goes right back to eating his burger. 'I'm just sick of it,' Dean says, quietly.

'Welcome to the human race, then,' says Bela, not unkindly. 'It sucks, but you'll get used to it.'

And before Dean can even parse that remark, she gets up and saunters away across the cafeteria, waving a hand behind her in blind farewell.

'Yeah,' Dean echoes, hollowly. 'Used to it.'

 


	6. Chapter 6

The Novak family landlord, Zachariah Adler, lives in a two-storey house the next street over. He answers Cas's knock wearing nothing but striped pyjama bottoms, a stained wifebeater singlet and his customary leer. The guy is a serious creep, and now as always, he looks at Cas like prey.

'What do you want, Castiel?' he says, extending the first syllable with an oily hiss. 'The rent's not due 'till tomorrow.'

'Paying early,' says Cas, and thrusts the money at him.

Adler laughs, and it's not a kind sound. 'You've never paid early before.'

'Yeah, well. First time for everything.'

'Sure there is,' says Adler. He takes the proffered notes and makes a show of counting them, huffing surprise at the total. 'Wonders will never cease! You must've worked hard to earn all this.'

'Yeah,' says Cas, swallowing. 'I did.'

Smirking, Adler leans in, and the glint in his eye makes Cas's skin crawl. 'I bet you were worth every penny,' he murmurs. 'But come to me first, the next time you're short. I'm sure we can work something out.' And he squeezes Cas's hand, his thick thumb dragging slowly across his knuckles.

Castiel jerks away, appalled, and Adler laughs again. 'Oh, don't look so shocked,' he says, leaning against the doorway. 'You think I don't keep tabs on my tenants? You haven't exactly been subtle.'

The world is spinning. This can't be real. 'How –' Cas starts, then forces himself to ask a different question. 'How did you know we were short?'

Adler snorts. 'How do you think? Your dad came by, said he'd borrowed your money, but wanted me to know he'd have it back to you soon, that I shouldn't assume you weren't good for it. I'm pretty sure he doesn't know about your, ah, _alternate revenue stream_ –' he chuckles, and Castiel wants to die, '– but then, who am I to say?'

Cas has no answer to that. Shaking, he takes a step back, and then another, and then another, retreating down the landlord's front path.

'Good talk!' Adler calls, when he reaches the street. 'I'll see you in a month, hm?'

Castiel turns and bolts.

Running is agony, but he forces himself to clear the street before staggering to a halt. He braces his hands on his knees, gasping at the acid burn in his ribs, throat, stomach. Weirdly, the pain anchors him, gives him something solid to focus on besides the unholy trinity of revelations that, firstly, Adler propositioned him in exchange for rent because, two, Adler knows he's been selling himself, which is almost as disturbing as the fact that, three, _Castiel's fucking father fucking told Adler he took their money_.

He starts walking, which hurts, but he needs that right now; so much so that he goes straight past the bus stop, heading to school on foot. He'll be late as fuck, but he doesn't care. It doesn't matter.

He's not sure anything does, any more.

By the time he makes it to campus, his grade is at lunch, which is the only fucking mercy in a morning devoid of same, because it gives him quick access to Meg. He finds her beneath the bleachers, slumped in a rickety folding chair with her boots propped up on a milk crate, smoking a skinny joint. Her bottle-blonde hair is black at the roots where she's still growing out a bad dye job, and her heart-shaped face is tipped back in pleasure.

'Hey, Meg,' he says, and his voice is so ragged, he barely recognises it.

'Hey yourse- _Clarence_?' says Meg, coming bolt upright. Her eyes go wide at the sight of him. 'Jesus, man, you look like shit.'

'I feel like shit,' says Cas. _I am shit_ , he almost adds, but doesn't, because it's a level of pathos too far, and he didn't come here to confess. Castiel's relationship with Meg can best be described as enemies with benefits: they kind of hate each other, but they have bigger hates in common, which means they sometimes hang out and get sarcastically stoned together.

'Weed?' Meg asks, proffering her joint.

'Bless you,' Cas says. 'Honour on your cow.' He moans as he inhales, still drunk enough that after three deep drags, he feels pleasantly crossfaded, and for the first time since Alfie woke him up, the pain in his ribs recedes.

He passes the joint back, leaning against a pillar. Meg takes another drag, holds it, blows a smoke ring.

'Wanna talk about it?' she asks.

'I really don't.'

'OK. Should I be worried?'

'About what?'

She gives him a Look. 'About the state of the union. What do you think, numbnuts? Worried about _you_.'

Castiel makes a dismissive noise. 'Sure. Whatever. Knock yourself out.'

'Ass,' Meg mutters, but there's no sting in it, and she hands Cas the joint to finish.

They share a companionable silence, broken a moment later when the bell rings. Both of them wince at the harsh sound.

'Ugh,' says Meg. 'I fucking hate this place. What've you got now?'

'English, I think,' says Cas. 'But I gotta get to my locker first. You?'

'Chemistry,' says Meg. 'Like I give a shit.'

'You're not going?'

'Hell no.' She tilts her head. 'You?'

'Yeah,' says Cas, surprising them both. He sighs, running a hand through his unbrushed hair. 'I need the normal, I think. Something like that.'

Meg rolls her eyes. 'Nothing about this place is normal, Clarence.'

'I know,' he says. 'Still, though.'

'Yeah, yeah.' She waves a hand. 'Run along, then. I'll catch you later.'

'You, too,' he says, and stumbles off to class.

 

*

 

Dean is early to English, snagging a seat behind the one he knows Cas usually takes. He tenses as the class files in, not wanting anyone else to take Cas's spot, but nobody does – not even Cas himself. As the door swings shut behind Ms Harvelle, Dean feels a pang go through him. He doesn't want to be worried about Castiel Novak, not after the shit he pulled last night ( _which was your own damn fault,_ a part of him whispers, _you kissed him first, you made him feel like he owed you sex_ ), but he is, he _is_.

Before him, Ms Harvelle frowns at the whiteboard. It's covered in writing from a previous class, and she can't find the duster to clean it off. Her gaze flits over the classroom before lighting on the supply cupboard. Crossing her arms, she makes an angry _tsk_ ing sound.

'Typical Blake,' she mutters, and as Dean follows her gaze, he realises the duster is on top of the cupboard, well out of her reach – unsurprising, if Mr Blake left it there, as he's an impressive 6'5, which makes him a whole foot taller than Ms Harvelle.

She looks at the class, clearly trying to decide who's both lofty and biddable enough to get the duster down with minimum fuss, and that's when the door bangs open, admitting none other than Castiel Novak. Everyone turns to stare, and there's a collective intake of breath at the sight of him, punctuated by a burst of scandalised giggling.

'Mr Novak,' says Ms Harvelle, unable to keep the shock from her voice. 'Are you all right?'

'Peachy,' says Cas, smiling dreamily at her, and it's a goddamn lie, because he looks like hell. His eyes are yellowed and bloodshot, accentuated by dark circles; his cheek is bruised almost as black as his hair, which is even messier than usual, and despite the cold weather, he's only wearing an ill-fitting tee and jeans, the former sweat-stained and the latter ripped to the point of being threadbare.

'Well,' says Ms Harvelle, and she takes a deep, assessing breath. 'I'll let your tardiness slide if you get that duster down for me.'

'Duster?' says Cas.

Ms Harvelle points. Cas blinks slowly.

'Oh,' he says. 'Right. Sure.'

He stretches to reach the top of the cupboard, and as he moves, his shirt rides up, revealing ribs that are bruised and swollen, dark flesh striped with angry cuts and crusted with dried blood. The injured area is almost as big as a football, visible to everyone.

Cas's long fingers close on the duster. He winces sharply, unaware of his audience, and hands the item to Ms Harvelle.

'Here,' he says. When she doesn't dismiss him right away, he looks puzzled. 'What? What is it?'

'Are you sure you're all right, Mr Novak?' Ms Harvelle asks. 'You look like you might need to see the nurse.' And she nods pointedly at his side.

A dark flush creeps up Cas's neck, and for the first time since entering the room, he glances at the class, most of whom aren't bothering to try and hide their reactions. Finally, he fixes on Dean, but for all that Cas is staring, it's a vacant intelligence; he looks utterly checked out.

Dean feels sick to his stomach. _Jesus, it's all my fault. I shouldn't have left him alone last night._

'Yeah,' says Cas, after a moment. He looks away from Dean. 'Yeah, maybe I do.'

'I'll write you a note,' says Ms Harvelle, sounding faintly relieved. 'You want someone to walk with you?'

Before Dean can stop himself, he says, 'I'll take him.'

Unsubtle murmuring ensues – _what does Dean Winchester want with Castiel Novak?_ – but for once, he doesn't care. Fuck Roy and the others and their petty freezeouts; Cas looks like he's on the brink of total collapse.

Ms Harvelle seems to have drawn the same conclusion. 'That might be for the best,' she says. 'Thank you, Dean.'

He doesn't reply; just gets up and comes to hover by Cas's side. Up close, Cas is sweaty and trembling; he reeks of pot and alcohol, and Dean's estimation of Ms Harvelle goes up a notch, because even though she must be able to smell it, too, she doesn't say a word.

'Here,' she says, handing Dean the note. 'Look after him.'

'Sure,' says Dean. 'C'mon, Cas.'

He's expecting protest, but assuming there was any fight in Castiel to begin with, there isn't now. He slumps, whispers a ragged, 'OK,' and lets himself be ushered quietly out of the classroom, oblivious to the twenty-odd pairs of eyes widening at the press of Dean's hand on his back.


	7. Chapter 7

'Don't take me to the nurse,' Cas says, the second they're out in the hallway. The weed is hitting like a hammer now; he's struggling to keep upright, his voice slurring awkwardly. 'Jus' out.'

'Your ribs –' Dean starts, but Cas cuts him off.

'Doesn't matter. 'm stoned, drunk. She'll know. Write it up. Don't want that.'

He sways, and Dean makes a worried noise, slipping an arm around his shoulders. Cas leans into him, grateful for the support. He's meant to be mad at Dean, he thinks, or embarrassed, or _something_ , but just at that moment, he can't recall why.

'Fine,' says Dean. 'No nurse. But you need help, Cas. Is there anyone I can call who can come pick you up, like your mom or something?'

Cas flaps his hand, makes a _pfft_ sound. 'Like she cares. Haven't seen her in... what day is it?'

'Friday.'

'Friday,' Cas echoes. 'Huh. Think I saw her Wednesday, maybe? Tuesday? I dunno.' He shuts his eyes, stumbles, takes a deep breath and forces them back open. 'Landlord wants to fuck me,' he says, blankly. 'Could call him. Let him. Maybe he'd give us next month free.'

'Jesus, Cas.' Dean pulls him closer, warm fingers curling around his uninjured side. 'You don't... god, don't even say shit like that, OK?'

He lets his head loll down. 'Why not? 's all I'm good for.'

'No, it's not. It's really, really not.'

Cas snorts. 'Like you'd even know.'

Dean goes briefly silent, then says, 'There's no one I can call?

'No one,' Cas confirms, and it's such a bleak realisation, it stops him dead. He sags against Dean, dimly aware that he's not in his right mind, that he's drunk and stoned and fucked up in a bunch of new and exciting ways after everything that's happened, but unable to translate the realisation into a brain-to-mouth filter. 'I don't have anyone,' he says, voice cracking. 'Just Alfie. But he's eight, you know, it's not like I _have_ him. More like he has me. _Stuck_ with me. He deserves better, though. 'm just... trash.'

Dean makes a pained noise. 'You're not trash, Cas.'

'Says you,' Cas mumbles. He tries to pull ahead, but gets his feet tangled again, forcing him to throw an arm around Dean's waist for balance. Dean inhales sharply, but doesn't let go, and as they turn the corner, Cas is vaguely aware that they're heading towards the parking lot. 'We driving?'

'Yeah,' says Dean. 'I'm going to take you home. Is that OK?'

Cas thinks of his tiny, ugly room and the bourbon bottle he left in the shower. He thinks of cold floors, cracking shelves and an empty biscuit tin.

'No,' he says. A shudder runs through him. 'Not home. Please. I can't. Just _can't_.'

'All right,' says Dean. 'Not home, then. Somewhere else. You got any preferences?'

Cas shakes his head. 'Just wanna lie down. Sleep. Be warm. Safe.'

They pass through a pair of double doors and out into the sunlight. He flinches away from it, hiding his face in Dean's shoulder. His body feels like liquid lead. Meg doesn't smoke hydro, but either today's joint was stronger than usual or he was just too fucked to handle it, because this isn't a crossfade any more; he's greening out on an empty stomach, and god, he's so fucking _tired_ , he just wants to lie down forever.

Time skips like a scratched CD, and suddenly he's being levered into Dean's car, his body slumping gratefully into the passenger seat.

'Cas? You in there? Shit, man, you're scaring me. Say something.'

Castiel makes a supreme effort, lifting his head and blinking his eyes wide open. Dean is in the driver's seat, looking worried and beautiful. Frowning, Cas leans over and cups his cheek, then drops his heavy hand.

'I'm here,' he says, forcing himself to enunciate. 'Just greening out. I'll be all right.'

If anything, this worries Dean more. 'Maybe I should take you to the hospital, just to be –'

' _No!_ ' Cas grabs his leg, sits bolt upright, head swimming with the effort. 'God no please don't, no hospital, we can't afford it, not again, we don't have insurance –'

'OK, OK!' Dean prises his hand up, squeezes the fingers gently. 'I get it, Cas. No hospital. But if you're really sick, I can't just leave you alone. You understand?'

'Don't,' says Cas. He slumps back in the seat, eyes slipping closed.

'You don't understand, or –? Hey! Cas! Focus!'

Everything is fuzzy, numb. The words come slowly, as though he's pulling them up by the roots. 'I understand. I'm fine. But if I'm not, don't save me, OK? Cheaper to let me go.' He leans his head on the window. 'Put me in a ditch, or something. Won't surprise anyone.'

He passes out before Dean can reply.

 

*

 

 _I should be panicking,_ Dean thinks, pulling out into the road. He doesn't know if Castiel is asleep or unconscious or what, but he's breathing deeply, and though his pulse is faster than normal, it's not racing, either. He's been to enough wild parties to know what ugly drunk/stoned looks like, and this isn't it; but then again, he's got no idea how Cas hurt his ribs or what else he's taken that might be a factor, and shit, he's not a diagnostician, he doesn't _really_ know. Part of him thinks, _Better safe than sorry. Go to the hospital, get it checked out. It's what a responsible person would do._ But medical bills are what made Cas start selling himself in the first place, and if Dean lands him in yet more debt, then how is he making things better?

 _Cheaper to let me go,_ Cas said, like he's not even worth the effort. God, it makes Dean want to break something, that Cas could feel like that, but he can't just override his wishes, either. Even if he had enough money to pay for a hospital visit, he can't hide the fact that Cas is a drunk, stoned minor covered in fresh bruises, and what if they figured out that he's been tricking, too? All his life, Dean's been taught to believe that the cops will help if he's in trouble, to go to the doctor if he's sick, that his parents will always put him first, but none of that's true for Castiel – not now, and maybe not ever. If Dean takes Cas to the hospital, then the absolute best case scenario is that Cas gets billed for a service he wasn't sick enough to need in the first place, and has to spend the next few weeks or months of his life fucking strangers in bathrooms to repay the cost of Dean's kindness. What's so responsible about that?

Idling at a long red light, Dean looks at Cas again. He's drooling a little, loose-limbed and slack in the passenger seat, and after a moment, Dean checks his pulse, sighing with relief to find it strong and regular. The clock on the dash reads 13:00, and Dean does some quick mental arithmetic. His dad works late on Friday nights, while his mom leaves early, driving straight from the library to take Sammy and Jo to tennis lessons. Speaking of which, Dean's meant to have practice this afternoon, too, but he still hasn't spoken to Roy and the others, and even if he had, fuck football – it used to be fun, but he hates what the team is turning him into, and with or without Cas's influence and the whole bisexual thing, it hasn't felt right for a while. He'll quit on Monday, apologise or whatever, but right now, the most important thing is that he's got at least five free hours and a sick – classmate? crush? friend? – whatever the hell Cas is to him – person, anyway – to look after, and an empty house to do it in.

'God, if you die on me, I'm going to be so pissed,' he mutters, absurdly glad that Cas can't hear the shake in his voice.

And before he can change his mind, he drives them both home.  


	8. Chapter 8

 Consciousness comes in flashes, vanishing between blinks. He knows they get out of the car, because Dean makes him walk, and his legs are water; then there's a flight of stairs, or maybe the ground just feels like stairs, but either way, Cas eels along as best he can, which isn't very, mumbling incoherent apologies as Dean hauls his deadweight – somewhere. A bed? A couch? It's furniture, anyway, and Cas faceplants into whatever-it-is with all the grace of a dropped rock.

He doesn't remember rolling over, but when he next comes to, there's a cold cloth on his forehead. It feels so good, he moans a little, and something beside him moves.

'You thirsty?' Dean asks.

'Mm,' says Cas, and suddenly there's a glass at his lips. He swallows water, little sips that soothe a throat he didn't know was sore, until he passes out again, burrowing into softness.

He doesn't dream.

Some time later, he drifts awake to the sound of Dean's voice, a low, comforting murmur. At first, it's just white noise, but slowly, steadily, the words become intelligible, bringing him back to himself.

'… Alfie's fine, though. He texted you, said he was spending the night at his friend Kevin's house, that your mom already said it was OK but that you could call Kevin's mom if you wanted to make sure, and he sent you her number, so. Uh. I rang it – I said I was you, and she didn't call bullshit, so I'm guessing you haven't met her before – but she seemed nice, happy to have him and whatever, so, yeah. Oh, and I texted Alfie back, said you were staying with a friend, too, which I hope was cool – I mean, I'm totally crossing some boundaries here, you can yell at me later, but I didn't really have a whole lot of options, you know, what with your being passed out and all, and I just...

'God, Cas. I feel so fucking shady right now, like I'm sitting here watching you sleep in my goddamn _bed_ , but you kinda freaked me out before, and I didn't want to leave you alone in case something happened, and I figure it's maybe marginally less creepy if I talk, even if you can't hear me, so... yeah. Uh. What else? I, uh. Oh. Um. I guess, I can – yeah, I mean, I should probably practice this, right? Saying it out loud? So, OK: I'm sorry about last night. I shouldn't have... god, I shouldn't have kissed you, not like that, not after everything, I didn't – I just didn't _think_ , and I know that's not a good excuse, but you're so goddamn beautiful and – shit, now I really do sound like a creeper, that's not – fuck – I mean... _fuck_. That's not it.

'Lemme try again, OK? It's just, I'm no good at this kinda thing, and I've never been with a guy before, and I didn't even know I was bi until you shoved me against the locker and I just, I don't know what it was, but it's like you flipped a switch in me, and all this stuff I'd been trying not to think about was just _there_ , you know? And I feel like such a fucking tool for ever hanging out with Roy, I know that doesn't fix it, but – Jesus, why is this so hard? I shouldn't, I shouldn't have kissed you after I gave you the money, I shouldn't have made you feel like you owed me something, I shouldn't have told you to get out, I should've stayed, I should've made sure you were OK, but I didn't, Cas, I didn't because I'm a coward, and a brat, and I'm selfish and entitled and every other thing you said, but I want to be better, I want a chance to show you that I can be better, and you don't, god, you don't owe me anything, not like that – if all you want is a friend, I'll be your friend, and if you never want to talk to me again, I'll leave you alone, I promise.

'But if, maybe, I don't know... if you wanted to maybe, uh... oh, fuck. I can't say it. I can't say it while you're asleep, not like this, I feel like a fucking kidnapper. I just want you to be all right, Cas. Please be all right.'

 _It's a dream,_ Cas thinks, dazedly. No way is there a version of the universe where Dean Winchester sits by his bedside and takes the time to answer Alfie's texts, let alone deliver an extensive, heartfelt monologue about how beautiful Cas is while fucking _apologising_ for giving him nearly five hundred bucks and a free ride home. No way is any of this real.

But then he opens his eyes, and there's Dean, sitting in a computer chair pulled up to the bedside, staring at Cas with a mixture of concern and awe, like he can't believe it, either.

'Oh, shit,' Dean breathes. 'Are you – are you awake?' And then, more shakily, 'How much of that did you hear?'

Heart pounding, Castiel reaches up and twines their fingers together. 'Enough,' he says, and smiles.

 

*

 

Dean can barely breathe. Cas's eyes are no longer bloodshot, bright blue blinking up at him from underneath long, dark lashes. His hand burns where Cas is holding it, and oh, god, he has to be so careful now – if he fucks this up again, he's not sure he'll forgive himself. He slides off the chair to his knees, putting them closer together, and when he speaks, his voice is shaky.

'Are you lucid, Cas? Are you really here?'

Cas's smile widens. 'Worried about taking advantage of me, Winchester?'

'Yes,' Dean whispers.

Slowly, gaze never wavering, Cas pulls their joined hands up to his mouth and kisses Dean's knuckles, one by one. 'I am,' he says gravely, 'lucid –' he kisses a fingertip, '– coherent –' the heel of Dean's palm, '– consenting –' the inside of his wrist, '– and, ah –' he strokes his thumb along Dean's hand, and says, almost shyly, '– yours, I think. If you want me. Which you might not. But on the offchance –'

Dean leans in and kisses him.

This time, Castiel kisses back. His free hand tangles in Dean's hair, long fingers teasing the nape of his neck. Dean shudders and moans, deepening the kiss. He tastes like pot and, very faintly, of toothpaste, which should be offputting, but really isn't. Castiel tugs his hair, making him gasp, then pulls back just enough to mumble, 'Up, come here,' against Dean's mouth, and who is he argue? Careful of Cas's injuries, he clambers up beside him, until they're lying face to face, legs touching, breathing each other.

Tentatively, Dean lifts a hand and trails his fingertips over Cas's bruised ribs, the mottled skin exposed where his shirt is rucked up. 'What happened?' he asks, softly.

Cas sighs. 'I drank too much and fell in the shower. I passed out lying on the, um, what do you call it? The runner, you know, the raised tracks where you slide the door?' He makes an abortive gesture with his hand. 'Anyway, that thing. I slept on it. Alfie had to wake me up.'

'You were there all night?'

'All night,' Cas says. 'And then I threw up half a bottle of bourbon, got propositioned by my creepy-ass landlord, walked to school, got stoned, walked into class looking like the poster child for domestic violence, and passed out in your car. And here I am.'

He says it lightly, but his body tenses, like even now, he's expecting rejection.

Instead, Dean kisses him gently. His hand ghosts up to Cas's bicep, curling around the muscle, and in return Cas grips his hip, tugging him closer. Their breathing quickens, and when Cas sucks Dean's bottom lip into his mouth, the noise of pleasure he makes is downright embarrassing – or would be, if it didn't prompt Cas to suck harder, slipping his hand up under the hem of Dean's shirt. Dean rolls back, following the pressure of Cas's touch, and suddenly he's being straddled, Cas's arms bracketing his head as he kisses him, slow and filthy.

Dean's entire body lights up like a Christmas tree. He slides his palms up Cas's thighs and down again, then props himself on his elbows, shimmying upright until his back is braced against the headboard. They break the kiss, and as Cas rests their foreheads together, he murmurs, 'You sure you've never been with a guy before?'

'Pretty sure,' Dean gasps. He curls his fingers in Cas's shirt, tugging him just that little bit closer, and then they're kissing again, Cas's hands cradling Dean's face like he's something precious. They're both hard, and the friction when Cas rocks his hips, rutting down on him, is electrifying.

Cas makes an urgent noise. 'What time is it?' he asks, dazedly leaning back. 'How long was I out?'

'A few hours,' Dean says, gulping. 'It's just after five, I think.'

'And Alfie's fine? He's at, ah, Kevin's house? Did I hear that right?'

'Yeah. Yeah, he is. Sorry, was that OK? I wasn't –'

'Dean,' Cas says, lips twitching, 'are you honestly trying to apologise for making sure my brother was safe?'

'Well, when you put it like that –'

'You're right,' says Cas, and kisses the hinge of his jaw. 'It's unforgivable.'

Dean tips his head back, panting as Castiel kisses down his throat. His hands come up of their own volition, skating over Cas's sides –

'Shit!' Cas yelps, flinching backwards.

'What did I – oh, your ribs, _fuck_.' Dean pulls his hands back, biting his lip. 'Are you OK?'

'Yeah,' says Cas, ruefully. 'It's not your fault. I did it to myself.'

'Still, though. I don't – I don't wanna hurt you.'

'You won't,' Cas says, and all at once, there's a hitch in his voice. 'Dean, I – are you sure you want this? You could have anyone, and I don't – after everything you saw, that I – what I am, I just – why me?'

Dean's chest tightens. Cas is shivering, eyes downcast.

Gently, Dean lifts Castiel's chin with a fingertip. 'I want you,' he says, drymouthed. 'Cas, I think – I think I've wanted you for a while; I just didn't know how to admit it. And what happened yesterday, that's not who you are, you know? You draw pen tattoos on your arms in English and read novels under the desk in Chem, and when Mr Kubrick made Charlie Bradbury cry last year, I know you're the one who left that jar of origami dicks on his desk, because you're smart and funny and kind and creative and you just, whenever you're around, I can't not look at you, it's like you light the place up, like you – shit, I don't know. Like when you set those firecrackers off at practice, the way you were laughing, there was this joyfulness to it and god, I just wanted to join in, and I –' he gulps, uncomfortably aware that he's rambling; Cas is wide-eyed and silent, and Dean sucks in a final breath and says, in a rush, '– I don't want anyone else.'

For a moment, Cas doesn't say anything; just sits there, cheeks flushed, utterly stunned. Then:

'How are you even real?' Cas whispers. He strokes a thumb along Dean's cheek, his touch impossibly light. 'OK. I – OK.' He laughs, pressing their foreheads together. 'So, ah. You wanna, um. You wanna come shower with me? Because I'm kind of gross right now, and after last night, I don't think I can be trusted on my own.'

Dean smiles so wide, it's almost painful. 'Yeah,' he breathes, and kisses him again. 'I think we can manage that.'  


	9. Chapter 9

Dazedly, Cas follows Dean down the hall to the bathroom, gulping as he takes in the size and cleanliness of the Winchester home. They're on the second floor, which is bigger than his entire house, and the soft cream walls are covered in framed photos. When Dean pushes open the third door they come to – and how many rooms do you really need, anyway? – Cas instinctively hunches in on himself. He feels like he's in a fancy hotel: the shower is huge, the tiles are a glossy blue-green, and the towels are big and soft. His reflection in the shining mirror looks grimy, sordid; he flinches at the sight of himself, and wraps an arm around his chest.

'Your house is nice,' he says, quietly.

Dean turns and looks at him, his expression melting in a way that does something seriously unfair to Cas's insides, and steps into his personal space.

'Here,' he says, and carefully lifts up Cas's t-shirt, tugging it over his head. Goosebumps prickle his arms as Dean undoes his jeans and slides them off his hips, inhaling when he sees that Cas has nothing on underneath. His feet are already bare, and once he steps out of his pants, he's naked and half-hard in Dean Winchester's upstairs bathroom, which is hardly fair, as Dean himself is still fully clothed, shoes and all.

'Your turn,' says Cas, swallowing against the sudden dryness in his mouth, and before he can lose his nerve, he grips Dean's tee and drags it slowly over his head.

Rationally, he thinks, he must have seen Dean shirtless before; he's hung around the football field often enough during games or practice, smoking weed with Meg and telling himself that their proximity to a bunch of attractive, sweaty guys was just a pleasant bonus, instead of being the actual goddamn point. But if he has, it was never like this, and he sure as hell didn't have permission to reach out and touch, running his fingertips over the hard, defined muscles. Dean leans into the contact, and when Cas looks up again, he's shocked to see Dean's eyes blown wide with pleasure.

A smile quirks its way onto Castiel's lips. He might feel out of place, but Dean Winchester wants him – actually wants _him_ – and that's a kind of fragile power he never expected to have. Slowly, careful of his side, he sinks to his knees, savouring Dean's shocked gasp. Not breaking eye contact, Cas reaches down and gently tugs off Dean's shoes and socks, setting them aside before skimming his hands back up to the buttons of Dean's pants. They're both breathing heavily now, and Cas's fingers shake as he reveals Dean's boxers (dark green cotton; the fucking things match his eyes) and removes them, too.

Dean's cock is hard and, unlike Cas's own, cut. He looks at it, and tries not to loathe himself at the realisation that, for all the contextual differences, he's still managed to end up on his fucking knees in a bathroom.

'Cas,' Dean says, voice cracking, and then there's a hand in his hair – not pulling him forwards, like Cas half expects, but stroking softly, tipping his head up. 'You don't have to – god, come here,' and somehow Cas is on his feet, and Dean is pulling him into a hug, one hand cradling his neck while the other strokes his back.

'I'm sorry,' Cas rasps. He doesn't know quite what he's apologising for, besides himself; but then, he supposes, that's more than enough.

Dean, though, seems to disagree. 'Shut up,' he says, voice rough with affection, and guides them both into the shower.

Instead of two taps, there's a single dial on the wall, and when Dean turns it, Cas jumps back, expecting the water to be cold. But of course, the Winchester house has a functional boiler, and while it still takes a moment to reach full heat, the initial spray is pleasantly warm. Cas groans in pleasure; even at full blast, his own shower is never this hot, and for once, he doesn't have to huddle and hunch to keep his whole body wet.

'Not that I'm fickle or anything,' he murmurs, sluicing water through his hair, 'but I want to marry your shower.'

'Get in line,' Dean says, chuckling. He steps close, hooking his chin over Cas's shoulder, arms wrapping slowly around his chest, and kisses just behind his ear. 'You wanna get cleaned up, Cas?'

The words shoot through him like nothing ever has. Cas moans assent and tips his head back, heart pounding wildly. Still pressed against him, Dean splays a possessive hand over Cas's stomach, grabs the soap, and starts to wash him.

It's the single most erotic thing that Cas has ever experienced. Dean goes slowly, lathering his fingers, slick touch dragging lightly over wet skin, and Cas is panting long before Dean so much as brushes his nipples, let alone ventures lower down. He's achingly gentle around the bruise, the crusted blood washing off like dirt, and then he moves back up again, stroking along his arms and shoulders, skipping down to his hips.

'God, you're beautiful,' Dean murmurs, and only then does he slip a hand around Cas's cock, the sudden contact jolting through him like lightning. Gasping, he watches as Dean's soapy fingers slide along his length, and when he lifts his other hand to tweak at a nipple, Cas lets out a noise that's embarrassingly close to a whimper.

'I've got you,' Dean says, and kisses his neck, gripping Cas's hip to pull him even closer. Cas can feel Dean's untended erection pressing against his ass, and all at once, he's overwhelmed, because while he's technically the experienced one when it comes to sex with men, nobody's ever taken care of him like this, let alone so tenderly. Before he started selling himself, his entire sexual history consisted of kissing, a couple of rushed handjobs, and getting fucked in the back of a police cruiser by a reasonably hot deputy who, it turned out, was quite happy to accept sexual favours in exchange for not charging him with possession. Which, in hindsight, probably wasn't the best way to lose his virginity, but at least the guy had tried to make it good for him, and if the quid pro quo nature of the incident was ultimately responsible for making Cas think he could cope with prostitution, then that was nobody's fault but his own.

But Dean, who has every reason to be hesitant, is making him feel worshipped, safe. There's an intimacy to it that flays him open, and suddenly Cas is right on the edge, shuddering as he comes harder than he has in forever. Dean continues to stroke him through it, and when he finally lets go, Cas turns in the circle of his arms and kisses him fiercely, pushing him back against the tiles.

'My turn,' he whispers, and slips a hand down between them.

 

*

 

Dean's had handjobs before – hell, he's had sexy showers before, too – but they've never felt like this. Cas slicks him up with a mixture of soap and come, and just knowing that makes his eyes roll back. Dean moans, tilting his head to give Cas better access to his throat, gasping at the bruising suck of teeth and lips that follows. He'll have a hickie or two to explain, which ought to bother him – he hasn't even come out yet, and they're going to lead to questions – but the thought of being marked up has him thrusting into Cas's fist, chasing the sleek friction with renewed urgency.

'Look at you,' Cas murmurs, sucking on his earlobe. 'You're perfect, Dean.'

'Not gonna last long,' he gasps out, blushing at his own honesty.

'Don't want you to last,' Cas says, and Dean can _feel_ him smiling. 'I want you to come for me.'

He flicks his wrist as he says it, soapy fingers skating down to press behind Dean's balls, and at the brush of teeth on his neck, it's game over. He pants out Cas's name, watching as his come spatters both their stomachs, and then they're kissing, sweet and biting under the spray. Dean goes boneless, resting his head on Castiel's shoulder, and flushes with pleasure when Cas murmurs, 'Fuck, that was hot.'

'Totally,' Dean agrees, and for a moment, they stay like that, arms looped around each other.

'Not to ruin the mood,' says Cas, 'but are we in any danger of being walked in on? I mean, is your family out or downstairs, or what? I never even asked, though in fairness, though, you're pretty distracting.'

'Oh, like you're not?' Dean teases, nuzzling his throat. It feels like a ridiculous thing to do, but Cas makes a breathy sound and practically melts against him. Dean files the reaction away in a mental folder marked Things To Do With Cas Again and pulls back a little, albeit reluctantly. 'They're out now, but they should be home soon,' he admits. 'Um, do you wanna – you could meet them, maybe? I mean, you don't have to, I don't wanna, um, push, but I figure the whole coming out thing might go a little easier if I can show them an actual boyfriend, you know?'

'Boyfriend?' Cas asks, hesitantly. 'You, I mean – you really want that with me?'

Dean blinks at him. 'Yeah, Cas. Of course I do. What, did you think I was going to just...' His voice trails off at the look on Cas's face, which is raw and hopeful to the point of being wrecked, and all at once, Dean realises he's never known Cas to date anyone; that up until yesterday, in fact, he didn't even know he was into guys. ' _Oh_ ,' he says, eyes wide. 'Shit, you've never – you've never done this before, have you? The dating thing, I mean, not sex.'

Cas shrugs like it's no big deal, but the vulnerability stays as he says, over-casual, 'Nobody ever wanted me like that.'

'Well, I do,' says Dean, firmly. 'Is that all right?'

'Yeah,' Cas whispers. 'Yeah, that's – shit, Dean –' and kisses him, deep and greedy, curling a hand around his neck and pressing their foreheads together. 'I, ah. I'm kind of a wreck, you know? Probably won't make the best first impression.' He touches his bruises, cheek and rib. 'Plus, my clothes are filthy.'

'Athletes get bruised all the time,' says Dean, 'and you can borrow some stuff to wear, if you want.'

'I'm not an athlete, Dean. I mean, I run sometimes, but that hardly counts.'

Dean grins. 'They don't know that. We'll make something up.'

Cas quirks an eyebrow. 'And if I show up, freshly showered, wearing your things, that's not going to start a riot?'

'Let them riot,' Dean says, shocked at his own vehemence. And then, more softly: 'I want this, Cas. You're worth it.'

Cas sucks in breath and stares at him. 'Whatever I did to deserve you,' he says, faintly, 'it must've been _really_ fucking good.'

Dean smiles. 'Believe me, it was.'

'Oh? And what was that, exactly?'

Leaning in, he kisses Cas's jaw and says, quietly, 'You set off fireworks.'

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings in the end notes.

Cas feels like he's floating. Dressed in a pair of soft grey sweats, a worn blue shirt and a comfortable hoodie, he sits on the edge of Dean's bed, mesmerised by the contents of the bookshelf opposite. He hadn't known Dean was a reader – hadn't wanted to hope they had even that much in common – but he's never been so happy to be proven wrong, especially when he finds Vonnegut shelved alongside Butler, le Guin and Pratchett. The posters on the walls are a mix of classic cars, star maps and action movies, and there are sparkly princess stickers stuck all over his desk – Jo's handiwork, according to Dean, but even if his little sister did put them there, Cas still thinks it's sweet that he hasn't taken them off.

Right now, Dean's in the laundry, putting both their clothes in the wash. If anyone asks, they're going to explain the shower, Cas's borrowed wardrobe and his bruises with a single story: that Cas got hit in the face with a stray baseball and crashed into Dean, knocking both of them into the mud. It's actually not a bad fit, and while he feels guilty at the prospect of lying to Dean's – to his _boyfriend's_ family, it's still better than the alternative.

Behind him, the bedroom door clicks open. Cas jumps, fearing discovery, but it's only Dean, carrying an empty laundry basket in one hand and a plate of snacks in the other.

Cas grins. 'You come bearing food!'

'I thought you might be hungry,' Dean says, blushing.

'You win all the boyfriend points,' says Cas, and scoots up to make room for Dean, thrilling at the way their legs press together. 'Those are totally a thing, right?'

Dean smiles, ducking his head. 'They can be,' he says, and shyly proffers the plate.

It's just some ham, cheese and crackers, but Cas can't remember the last time someone brought him a meal, and even if he wasn't starving, the gesture alone is endearing all by itself. Throat tight, he tears off a bit of ham, stacks it on a cracker with a square of cheese, hesitates, and then lifts it up for Dean to eat instead. Dean's eyes widen; he opens his mouth as much in surprise as acceptance, and Cas's cheeks burn as he pops the food in, shivering at the swipe of Dean's lips on his fingers. He drops his gaze to the plate, embarrassed by the intimacy of it, and quickly assembles his own small serving, groaning at the taste.

They eat in companionable silence, darting quick glances at each other, feet nudging playfully, and it's all so sweet and simple and _easy_ that Cas can hardly believe it's his actual life. He can't remember the last time he felt this good, and once the food is gone, Dean leans in and kisses him softly again, until everything else disappears.

Something bangs downstairs, followed by a ruckus of inaudible shouts. They break apart, and Dean makes a face

'Sammy and Jo,' he says. 'They don't exactly do quiet.'

'How old are they?' Cas asks.

'He's twelve, she's eleven, but the way they compete, you'd think they were twins.' He sounds both exasperated and fond, and as a fellow older brother, Cas knows the feeling well. Dean cocks his head, listening, then adds, 'I think it's just them and mom. Dad sometimes meets up with them after tennis, but I guess he's still working.' He swallows, suddenly looking nervous. 'Maybe that's a good thing.'

'Hey,' says Cas, twining their fingers together. 'We don't have to do this now. If you're not ready, it's fine. I can wait.'

'Thanks, Cas, but I think I'd rather get it over with, you know? Waiting won't change how they feel. They'll either accept it or they won't.'

 _But what if they don't accept_ me _?_ Cas thinks, but keeps the fear to himself, and when Dean stands, he follows, gripping his boyfriend's hand as they head downstairs.

The sitting room is spacious, well-furnished, and occupied by Dean's siblings, the younger Winchesters wrestling fiercely over whose turn it is to play as Bowser in MarioKart. Jo has her brother in a headlock, the Wiimote held in her other hand as she clicks through menu options.

'No fair!' Sam pants, trying to grab it from her. 'You always – ow!'

'Don't be such a baby!' Jo snaps, crowing triumphantly as her selection goes through. 'You snooze, you – whoah!' She does a double-take, mouth hanging open as she takes in Cas and Dean's joined hands. ' _Dean's_ got a _boyfriend_ ,' she breathes, slackening her grip enough for Sam to twist free and stare at them, his hazel eyes owlish under messy bangs.

'Seriously?' he asks.

'Yeah, I do, actually,' Dean says. He raises an eyebrow at them. 'You got a problem with it?'

Jo frowns, crossing her arms. She's tiny and blonde, and if Cas hadn't just seen her wrestle her much taller brother to a standstill, he'd probably think she was harmless. She lifts her chin imperiously. 'You better be good to him,' she says. 'Or I'll draw dicks on your face.'

Sam snorts, and Cas suppresses a laugh. 'I'll be good,' he says, gravely.

'He got a name?' Sam asks, directing the question at Dean, who rolls his eyes to the ceiling.

'No, Sammy. He doesn't. He's a nameless wonder.'

'I'm Cas,' says Cas, and Sam grins like he passed a test.

'Cool,' he says, and flops back on the couch. 'Just keep the gross makeouts where I can't see them, and we'll be – hey, that's cheating!' he shouts, indignantly grabbing his own Wiimote as Jo starts a race without him. Never has being so quickly ignored felt so much like acceptance.

'Two down,' Dean murmurs, smiling slightly, and leads him into the kitchen, where a tall blonde woman is busy unpacking groceries. She's wearing fitted jeans and a white singlet under an unbuttoned, long-sleeved shirt, which makes her look like she's stepped right out of a clothing catalogue, or maybe off a yacht.

Cas gulps, and tries to project an air of Good Enough For Your Son.

'Mom?' says Dean, his voice much quieter than it was a moment ago.

'Yeah, sweetie?' she says, turning to face them. She's beautiful, of course – Dean clearly takes after her – and as she takes in the sight of them, her lips round in a soft O of surprise. Cas is damn near holding his breath, but then she smiles, and it's like the sun coming out. 'Who's this?' she asks, and there's pride and affection in her voice, as though she hasn't noticed his bruises at all.

Dean visibly relaxes, but still gulps a bit as he says, 'This is Castiel Novak. Cas. My boyfriend. I'm, uh. I'm bisexual. So.'

Cas squeezes his hand, and says, in his best if seldom-used Talking To Adults Politely voice, 'It's nice to meet you, Mrs Winchester.'

'Call me Mary,' she says, smiling. 'Would you like to stay for dinner, Cas?'

'Yes, please,' he gets out, just as Dean says, 'Thanks!'

'Good!' she says, waving a hand at the groceries. 'In that case, you can both help me unpack.'

Cas looks at Dean, who's almost vibrating with relief. He wonders if he can get away with kissing him, and blushes to the roots of his hair when Dean leans in and pecks his cheek.

'I'll show you where everything goes,' Dean says, and just like that, Cas finds himself tasked with ferrying cans to the pantry, buzzing with happy adrenaline.

He's on his last trip when he hears the sound of the front door opening. Footsteps follow, and then there's a chorus of muffled greetings as Dean's father enters. Cas feels a frisson of nerves, and for a moment, he's tempted to stay where he is, tucked out of sight with the dry goods and non-perishables. But Mary's being so welcoming, and cowardice seems a poor way to repay Dean's bravery in coming out for him, and so he takes a breath and exits the pantry, smoothing his hands nervously down his thighs.

'Hi,' he says, re-entering the kitchen. 'I'm –'

The whole world freezes, along with Castiel's blood. The man standing opposite him is barrel-chested and dark-haired, dressed in red flannel and oilsmeared jeans, and from the expression of mounting fury on his face, it's clear he's recognised Cas, too, and oh, god, Jesus, no, please, this isn't happening –

' _Why is there a rent boy in my kitchen?_ ' Dean's dad snarls, and Castiel chokes on air, because this is the way the world ends, this is the way the world ends, this is the way the world ends: not with a bang, but with a man who once took a swing at him for refusing lower the price of a fuck, and Cas doesn't know how to breathe any more, and maybe he never did.

 

*

 

'Did he tell you that's what he is?' John thunders, flicking his gaze to Mary. Dean is rooted to the spot, his mental gears spinning madly in an effort to process what's happening. Mary's face is white and pinched, and Cas just stands there looking like he's been shot. 'Or did he lie about that, too, when he was telling you god knows what about –'

' _John!_ ' Mary snaps, and Dean is shocked all over again: his mother almost never gets angry, but she's furious now, staring at her husband like he's grown an extra head. 'You will do our guest the courtesy of apologising _this instant,_ or so help me –'

'I am,' Cas whispers. It's barely audible, but everyone turns to stare at him like he's shouting. 'What he says. I am.' He's almost crying, clutching himself. 'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'll go –'

Dean finally unfreezes, rushing over to wrap Cas close before he can run away. 'You're not going _anywhere_ ,' he says, soft and fierce, and Cas struggles for a full half-second before burying his face in Dean's shoulder, shaking like a leaf.

'Quite right,' says Mary. Her voice is iron, and as she glares at John, Dean sees the exact moment when his father mentally switches from offence to defence, an alien ripple over his features that's all the more sickening for being calculated. 'Explain yourself, John Winchester. _Now_.'

John licks his lips. 'I don't know what he's told you about me –'

' _Nothing_!' Dean yells, pulling Cas closer. 'He's never even _met_ you, what the fuck could he possibly –' Cas goes rigid against him, and Dean's stomach roils with the ugliness of it. 'Oh, god. No. No, no. Dad?' His voice breaks embarrassingly, and all at once, he remembers Cas kneeling in the bar bathroom, the meaty crack as the biker slapped him. 'You didn't. Jesus, tell me you _didn't_.'

'Don't be disgusting,' John says, but there's something off about his voice, and Mary doesn't miss it.

'You called him a rent boy,' she says, flatly. 'You _recognised_ him. Your very first thought, in point of fact, was that he'd been telling tales about you. Now, why would you assume a thing like that?'

John is turning red. 'Why the fuck else would he be here?' he snaps. 'His type are all the same, I figured he'd seen me at the bar, wanted to try and make trouble, maybe blackmail me –'

'Blackmail you with what, John? Unsubstantiated lies? And how – by coming to me instead of you? That doesn't make a lick of sense.'

John opens his mouth. Shuts it again. He looks from his wife to his son, and finally seems to register that Dean is holding Cas. He snorts, exasperated and angry. ' _That's_ what started all this? You suddenly think you're gay? And for someone like _him_?' He shakes his head, lips twisting. 'Don't be ridiculous, Dean.'

With everything else his father's said, this shouldn't be a gut-punch. Hell, it's not even surprising, and yet it still hurts. 'I'm bisexual, not gay,' Dean says, fighting to keep his voice even, 'and don't you dare, don't you even dare _start_ with me about Cas, OK? I don't know what the fuck's wrong with you, who pissed in your goddamn Cheerios –'

'Don't you talk to me in that –'

'– but you can take your bigotry and fuck off with it,' Dean says, shouting him down. 'All right? Because I don't, god, the way you're acting right now? You're the opposite of everything you've ever taught me a good man should be, and I can't even fucking _look_ at you, dad.'

John makes a strangled noise, and in the silence that follows, Mary says, 'Your son's right. Get out, John.'

Cas whimpers into his shoulder, and Dean just holds him, staring at a point on the wall to the left of his father's head.

'You can't be serious! Mary, over a kid like –'

'Yes!' she roars. 'Over a fucking _kid like_ , you judgemental, closeted _asshole_ , and do you know why? _Because he's a kid_ , and as far as I'm concerned, you forfeited any moral highground the second you decided to shame him for something he shouldn't have to do, and if that wasn't reason enough, then being a biphobic brute to your son would still put you over the line.' She folds her arms, two high spots of colour on her cheeks, and says, more quietly, 'I'll call you in a couple of days, and then we can talk about this. But if you don't go now, then I'm changing the locks.'

Absolute silence.

And then, with all the stiff-jointed grace of an angry statue, John Winchester turns and storms back out of the house.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for biphobia/homophobia.


	11. Chapter 11

It's like he's greening out again, he feels so weak. If Dean wasn't holding him up, he'd have collapsed already – Dean, whose mother just _threw her husband of the house_ on his behalf, and Cas can't do this, can't be responsible for breaking up a marriage, but he's shaking too badly, he can't pull away, and so he's trapped in a comforting hug that he doesn't deserve, the silent seconds ticking by like bombs.

'Cas?' Dean says, his voice no less shaky than Castiel's legs. 'Are you OK?'

He hadn't thought he was crying, but when he lifts his head, he can feel it on his face, the cold streaks drying like glue. 'No,' he rasps.

Dean looks stricken, and just at that moment, it's more than Cas can bear. He stumbles backwards, banging into the kitchen island. 'I should go,' he says, the words staccato against the granite, 'I should, I should, I fucking ruin _everything_ , I should never –' and then he's running, heedless of his bare feet and his borrowed clothes, ashamed of himself for leaving but too broken up to stay. The front door bangs in his wake; it's already getting dark outside, and Cas bolts down the footpath, clutching his ribs in a futile effort to stop the pain. He makes it half a block before he has to stop. The chilly concrete numbs his soles, and it's another few minutes before he comes back to himself and realises he has no idea where he is. He was completely out of it when Dean brought him here, and in the early evening gloom, he can't make out so much as a single landmark.

A white SUV pulls up on his left, the horn beeping softly. Cas nearly jumps out of his skin, paling when he recognises the driver as Mary Winchester. She winds down the streetside window, leaning her head across.

'Castiel,' she says, 'I'll understand if you'd rather not, but can I give you a lift somewhere?'

Cas hugs himself and stares at his bare feet. His shoes are back at the house, and he doesn't think he can face Dean right now – the guy defended him to his _dad_ , and Cas repaid him by running away – but he can't walk home like this, either. Even if he knew the way, he'd rip his feet up doing it, and why does every fucking thing in his life come down to money, to medical bills?

'Why the fuck not,' he says. He means it to be angry, but it comes out thin, the words half blown away on the wind, and before he can change his mind, he climbs up into the passenger seat beside her.

Cas stares fixedly at the dashboard. It's like they're stuck in a strange détente: he doesn't put on his seatbelt, and Mary doesn't start the engine. The silence stretches like an inflating balloon, taking up steadily more space. Castiel tries to outlast it, but he doesn't understand this woman; doesn't know why she approved of him, defended him, when any normal person would've thrown him out on his ass, and finally he cracks.

'He never fucked me,' he blurts, wincing at the baldness of it. 'I mean – _shit_. I mean he didn't, we never... did anything. Like that.' He squeezes his hands between his knees, unable to meet her gaze.

'But?' she prompts, and god, how the fuck is she being so calm?

Cas takes a breath and shuts his eyes. 'But he wanted to. He just didn't like the price.'

Mary inhales sharply. Cas sneaks a glance, and sees her hands are fisted on her thighs. Very slowly, she says, 'John tried to... haggle you down?'

'Yes.'

'For sex.'

'Yes.'

'And when you said no?'

Cas hesitates.

'Castiel?' Her voice is soft, but urgent. 'What did he do?'

'He took a swing at me, OK?' He jerks his head up, staring at her, angry and hurt and wanting to share it. 'He said I was worth a fifty or nothing, that I'd be lucky –' he chokes, refusing the lump in his throat, '– lucky if anyone wanted me at all, but our insurance lapsed and my brother was sick, and I didn't, I didn't want to do it for so little, I just wanted to get it over with, get what I needed, and he didn't like that, so he came at me and I ran away and he looked like he wanted to chase me, but the bartender yelled about cameras and he sat right back down, and I never went back to that place again, and I'm sorry I dragged Dean into it, I told him he deserves better than me, but he was being so nice, and I wanted –' he rocks forward, resting his head on the dash, '– I just wanted _him_ , I wanted –'

And then he's crying, heaving sobs, and even the fact that this is the third time in two days that he's broken down in a Winchester car isn't sufficient to make him stop.

'Oh, sweetheart,' Mary says, and Castiel isn't quite sure how it happens, but she pulls him into a hug, stroking his back, and he cries on her like he used to cry on his own mother as a kid, until he doesn't have anything left in him.

'You're being so nice,' he mumbles, thoroughly ashamed of himself. He sits back, staring at his hands again. 'I don't understand why you're being so nice to me.'

'Because,' says Mary, 'this isn't your fault. My husband –' She breaks off, staring out the window, jaw clenched, then lets out her breath in a quiet exhale. 'You're not the one who needs to hear this,' she says, softly. 'The way he's treated you is unforgivable, and I don't... there's no onus on you to try and make sense of it. You don't owe him that. But I want you to know how sorry I am, and that you're always welcome in our home.'

Cas gives a hoarse laugh. 'You really think Dean still wants me after this? I basically ruined his family, and then I ran out on him.'

'Castiel. Look at me.' He does, and she fixes him with a stare that's no less green than her son's. 'You haven't ruined anything. Whatever fallout there is, that's on John, not you, and Dean... if anything, he's worried that _you_ don't want _him_.'

His mouth hangs open. 'That's insane!' he says. 'I just, I don't – why would he even – how could he possibly –' He shakes his head in exasperation. 'God, what a pair. The two of you are fucking saints, you know that? What, did you sprout fully formed from some celestial garden of goodness?'

Mary smiles, a soft, complicated expression. 'Funny you should say that,' she says. 'Here, let me show you something.' And as Castiel stares, astonished, she slips her overshirt off her shoulder, revealing a faded sleeve tattoo. Or mess of tattoos, rather: some of them are poorly done, the sort of smudged lines that look more like they were made with a sewing needle and homemade ink than in a tattoo studio, but all of them are colourful, stretching out from Mary's shoulder to just above her elbow.

And right on the meat of her arm, in prominent, careful lettering, is a phrase that makes Castiel's eyes bug out:

 

_**Every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.** _

 

He reads it three times, miming the words to make sure he's got them right. He looks at Mary again, mouth shaping aimlessly around a question he doesn't know how to ask. She quirks her lips and pulls her shirt back into place.

'I wasn't born a wife and mother,' she says, wryly. 'People see me now, they assume a certain trajectory. But life isn't as simple as all that, so every once in a while, I like to wear sleeveless tops in public and throw off their calculations.'

Cas laughs despite himself, and Mary responds by reaching into her pocket, pulling out a phone – his phone, he realises – and pushing it into his hand.

'Dean asked me to give that to you,' she says. 'He programmed his number in, which I hope is all right, but like I said, he was very concerned you wouldn't want to talk to him.'

'Well, he's an idiot,' Cas mumbles, slinking down into the seat.

Mary smiles and turns the key in the ignition. 'Now. Where can I drop you off?'

Cas buckles his seatbelt, and tells her.

 

*

 

Dean lies curled on his mattress, utterly heartsick. Over and over, he replays what John said, what _Cas_ said, trying to find an interpretation that doesn't imply his father did something that makes him want to vomit. Even when they don't see eye to eye, he's always respected his dad, but tonight has utterly shredded that faith, and he doesn't know that he'll ever get it back.

At least Sammy and Jo had the volume up so loud in MarioKart that they didn't hear the argument. That's the only good thing going for him right now – that, and the hope that maybe his mom will give Cas his phone, so that when Dean texts him and Cas doesn't answer, he'll know for sure that it's over.

_God, I don't want it to be over._

He shoves his face in the pillow, groaning quietly. He doesn't exactly sleep, but he loses track of time, and suddenly his mom is back, poking her head into his room with a quiet, 'Dean? Can I talk to you, sweetie?'

'Yeah,' he says, voice rough, and curls up his legs to make room for her.

'I drove Castiel home,' she says, without preamble, 'and no, he doesn't hate you. He was worried you wouldn't forgive him for running away, but I set him straight on that count, and he has his phone again. So.'

'Thank you,' he whispers.

'What are mothers for, hm?' She pats his foot through the comforter, sighs. 'Do you want to go first, or should I?'

Dean lets out a shaky breath. 'I will,' he says, and before she can so much as nod, the words are pouring out of him: how he's always noticed Cas, always thought he was special but didn't know how to say it; the incident with Roy; what happened at the bar –

'I gave him four hundred and fifty dollars,' he says, gulping. 'I know it's a lot of money, but I just – the way that guy treated him, and how he looked afterwards, I couldn't – god, he just was so miserable, I couldn't bear it, and then I kissed him in the car, and it was such a stupid thing to do, I made him feel like I'd bought him –'

His mother makes soothing noises, and Dean keeps right on talking, omitting only that Cas was stoned at school and the fact that they shared a shower. He finally runs out of steam, and for a moment, Mary just sits there, taking it all in.

'You did the right thing,' she says, quietly. 'Giving him the money, I mean. It was a wonderful thing to do, and I'm proud of you. I just wish – I wish your father had been so good, too.'

Dean goes very still. 'Did he – with Cas, did he ever –?'

'No,' says Mary, and Dean stares at her, sure that she must be lying until she says it again; more calmly, this time. 'No, he didn't. I asked outright, and I believed his answer.'

'Which was?'

'That John changed his mind. He thought the price was too high.'

'The price?' Dean says, absurdly hopeful. 'You mean, like the cost to us?'

Mary winces. 'No, Dean. I mean the literal price. He thought it was too expensive.'

'Oh.'

'I know.'

They sit in silence, not quite looking at each other.

'You called him closeted,' Dean says, softly. 'When you were yelling earlier. Did you – is he –?'

His mother sighs, leaning back against the wall. 'Your father is... complicated. When he was growing up, it was still taboo to be gay, and nobody really talked about being bisexual like they do now – or if they did, it wasn't a conversation he could easily access. When I first met John, we were both at something of a lose end, rebelling in our different ways, and – well. That's a much longer story. The point is, there were times when I certainly thought that he was attracted to men as well as women, but he always denied it, and I knew he loved me, so I didn't push, and while I've done my best to encourage him to be honest with himself, it's always been a sore subject between us.'

She pauses, curls her hands into fists, then straightens them out again. 'I don't know if he's ever acted on his desires before. I've had my suspicions at times, and if he'd approached a consenting adult, even for money, that would have been one thing. But propositioning someone like Castiel – someone young and vulnerable, a _teenager_ , and then to dehumanise him like that, and to lash out at you – that, I'm having a hard time forgiving. And maybe I shouldn't.' She looks at him, and he's horrified to see her eyes are wet. 'I'm so sorry, sweetie.'

'Mom, no! God, this isn't your fault.' He pulls her into a crushing hug, his throat suddenly tight. 'It's him, it's all on him. You tried to help, you took Cas home – dad's the one being a douchebag, here. And if you, whatever you want to do next, I'm on your side, OK? I'm on your side, because I brought home a guy with pierced ears and a bruised cheek and told you I was bi, and you didn't even question it, you made us both feel normal, you know? But even without the other stuff, what dad said to me, I feel like... god, I feel like he would've said it anyway, even if he hadn't recognised Cas, and that just makes it a thousand times worse.'

He shuts his eyes, a cracked laugh in his throat. 'I mean, shit, it's not like being angry and self-hating and rattled is a good excuse to begin with, not after what he did, but if I'd caught him at the best possible time, in the best possible mood, with a guy that he already knew and liked – fuck, if I'd brought home fucking _Roy_ , he _loves_ Roy – and he was _still_ always going to shake his head and tell me I was ridiculous, then why the fuck should I bother?'

'I know, sweetie,' Mary says, and suddenly, it feels like she's the one holding him. 'I... I can't make any promises. Whatever I decide, it's going to be complicated. We'll all have to work at it, even Sam and Jo. But Castiel –' She pulls back, looks him square in the face,and says, 'I know you already know this, but it isn't his fault, either. I told him that he's welcome in this house, and I meant it. I just... I don't want you to think you have to sacrifice anything because of your father's problems. You've dated before, but you've never been as eager to introduce me to someone as you were tonight, and from what I've seen, he's someone quite special.'

Dean digests this information, swallowing nervously. 'And you're not... you're really not bothered about what he's done?'

Mary raises an eyebrow. 'Are you?'

'No!' says Dean, hotly. 'I mean, god, it's not like he was – he never lied to me about it, and I hate that he had to do it at all, because it wasn't safe and it wasn't making him happy, but that doesn't change how I feel about him.'

Gently, his mother cups his cheek. 'I raised you right, kiddo,' she says, and drops a kiss on his forehead. 'And not to go all after school special on you, but on the subject of safety, I'd take it as a personal favour if you'd both find time to visit the free clinic, OK?'

A day ago, it would have been a mortifying comment. Instead, Dean nods and says, 'OK.'

Something buzzes against his desk. Dean blinks, confused, then sucks in breath: it's his mobile, ringing on silent.

'Is that –?'

Mary stands and checks the phone. 'It is,' she says, smiling. 'I asked him to wait until about now before calling you, so we'd have time to talk first. You tell him from me, he's got perfect timing.' And without another word, she hands it over and leaves the bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

Drymouthed, Dean stares down at his mobile. He waits a moment, gathers his courage, and answers the call.

'Cas?' he asks, voice shaking.

'Hello, Dean,' says Cas.

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for this chapter in the endnotes.

 Cas sits in the window seat beside his bed, his back pressed hard to the wood. One arm wraps across his ribs; the other holds his phone. He listens to Dean breathe, in and out and in again, unable to break the silence. He wants to say so much, but all of it feels inadequate, and Mary was nice to him in the car – was unbelievably kind and cool – but now he's by himself again, and the wrenching guilt feels like poison. He's ruined her marriage. He's _ruined Dean's fucking family_ , and how can he possibly make it better? If Castiel hadn't been at the house – if he hadn't been so pathetically stoned and drunk that Dean had to haul him out of class – then none of this would've happened.

'You still with me, Cas?' Dean asks, softly.

'Yeah.' He sucks in a shaky breath. 'Yeah, I'm here. I'm sorry.' _I'm sorry for everything._

'Don't be,' says Dean. 'Not for – not for anything, OK? I spoke to my mom, and she told me some stuff... Cas, this isn't your fault. My dad's a dick –' his voice cracks a little, and Castiel _shudders_ with how much he hates himself for this, '– and that's on him, not you.'

Cas has nothing to say to that. He can't bring himself to agree, but he doesn't want to fight with Dean, either. Instead, he tips his head back and says, after three full seconds of silence, 'My mom picked up an overnight shift at the bar tonight. She left a note. She'll be back tomorrow, I guess. Said she'd pick up Alfie in the morning. But I wouldn't bet on it.'

'Oh,' says Dean. 'Is that, um –'

'It's not her fault,' says Cas, blankly. 'I mean, she tries. She works hard, she goes out. She copes, she forgets. I just. I wish she knew, sometimes, you know? I wish she knew what I'd done, I wish she'd tell me I did good, that I did what I had to. I wish she'd forgive me. I wish she'd be angry, tell me to never do it again, that we'll work something out. But I think.' He shuts his eyes, hating the tears that slip out. 'I think, if she knew, she wouldn't do any of that.'

'Cas –'

'I think she'd just ask me how much. Pragmatic, you know. And then she'd say, _OK, Cassie. OK_. And then she'd go out again.'

Saying it, he feels weirdly light. Cold and calm, like there's metal under his skin. His throat is tight, but he's not crying; not really. He doesn't have any real tears left. He doesn't have anything real at all. There's just his room, and his crappy phone, and the voice of a boy he'll never deserve.

Slowly, Cas moves onto his bed. His limbs feel stiff, like they're made of wood. He's dimly aware of background noise on Dean's end, but he tunes it out, shuffling himself upright. He puts his legs over the mattress, toes on the threadbare rug, and opens the rickety drawer of his bedside table.

'Dean?'

'Yeah, Cas?'

'I'm really sorry.'

'I get that, but you don't have to be.' More background noise: distant voices, a door closing. 'I meant what I said, OK? You're my boyfriend. I want to be with you.'

'You shouldn't, though. I'm not worth it.'

'Don't say that.'

'Why not?' says Cas, bleakly. 'It's true. I'm a homewrecking whore.'

'Bullshit,' Dean snaps, and there's anger in his voice, and desperation, and maybe just a tiny bit of fear. 'You're not – you don't get to decide how I feel about you, Cas. You're none of that.'

Castiel pulls the drawer onto his lap. 'Logic goes both ways, Dean. If I can't choose your feelings, you can't choose mine.'

'I can if yours suck.'

He snorts at that, the humour reflexive. 'Hypocrite.'

'Says the guy who's blaming himself for something that's not his fault.'

'This must be some strange usage of the word, _fault,_ that I wasn't previously aware of.'

Dean makes a choking noise. 'You're quoting the _Hitchhiker's Guide_ at me now? That's low, Cas. I can't compete with Adams.'

'Nobody can compete with Adams. That's the point.'

'Still, though. You're wrong.'

Cas finds what he wants and pulls it out, letting the drawer slide down onto the mattress. 'I'm very wrong,' he agrees, the plastic cold in his hand. 'You're getting it. Wrong in all the ways.'

'Goddamit, you _know_ that's not what I meant –'

'I'm tired, Dean,' Cas says, quietly. 'I'm tired all the time. I hate maths, but I'm always counting, I always have numbers in my head, you know? I have to remember my shifts and work out tips and my grade point average and class times and bank accounts and gas bills and rent and what's in the fucking biscuit tin and which brand is cheapest, and how much it'll cost to get Alfie new shoes or go on a field trip, and how much –' his voice cracks awfully, '– how much we can fall behind before I need to start sucking cock again, and what to charge, and _I can't do it any more_ , I can't live like this, I can't be the guy who broke his boyfriend's family –'

'Cas, please –'

'– I just _can't_ , Dean, OK? And I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry –' he thumbs the boxcutter open, throat tight as he stares at the blade, '– but I'm not gonna pull you down with me. So. So you can just, you can do better, you know? You'll do better. You'll all be better off.'

'Jesus, no, Cas, no no –' Dean sounds frantic, the phone crackling like he's got it jammed between his ear and his shoulder, '– please tell me this isn't what I think it is, please don't do anything stupid, please –'

'You'll get over it,' Cas says. His voice sounds faint and sick, even in his own ears, and part of him is paralysed, like he can't believe he's doing this, but the rest of him is tired and hurt and so fucking ashamed, he just wants to lie down forever, and everyone knows there's only one way to do that, and so what if it's selfish? Selflessness is what got him here, and idiocy, and sheer bad luck, and maybe this is dumb, too, but he's all out of options, and what the fuck is Dean thinking, that they're going to sit around and play happy fucking families when Cas is the reason that Dean doesn't have one any more? And even if they last for a bit, they'll break up in the end, and nobody else is ever going to want him, not after what he's done, and it's better this way, it just _is_ , OK? Dean can find someone good to date, his parents can make up, Cas's mom will have more money for Alfie –

' _Money!_ ' Dean yells, and only then does Cas realise he's been saying all this out loud, that Dean's still on the phone with him, and he's about to hang up when Dean chokes out, 'You think fucking _dying_ is _cheap_? They'll have to pay to bury you, Cas, they'll have to pay for a coffin and a headstone and a fucking _priest_ , Jesus, you'll leave them in debt, you don't want that, I know you don't –'

'Stop,' Cas whispers, horrified. 'No, that's not – that's not what I meant, I don't want that –'

'– _Damn right_ you don't,because you're _not fucking dying_ , I swear to fucking _god_ , Cas, don't make me call an ambulance, you know how fucking expensive those things are? I'll call one right now, I'll send it straight to your house –' there's a screeching sound, a thump, a burst of footsteps, '– shit, I'll call _three_ , I'll call out every one they have –'

'Dean –' Cas says, then breaks off, dropping the phone in shock, because someone's at his door and pounding the wood like they're trying to break it down, and oh, god, what if it's John Winchester, come to get revenge? But weirdly, the thought doesn't frighten him. His stomach drops, and he nods to himself. The perfect end to a perfect evening. _Of course it's John Winchester, dumbass_. _Who else would it possibly be? What else do you deserve?_

' _Cas? Cas!_ ' Dean's yelling at him through the phone, loud enough to be audible even with the speaker off, but Castiel doesn't answer. Instead, he stands, still gripping the knife as he heads to the door, heart thumping in time with the hammering blows. _I'm going to die_ , he thinks wildly, unlocking the door, and it's halfway open before he thinks, _Shit, but I want to live_ –

Cas freezes, a burning lump in his throat.

It's not John Winchester, after all.

It's Dean.

 

*

 

For a moment, Dean just stares at him. Cas is still in his sweats and hoodie, his dark hair sticking up every which way, and if it weren't for the yellow boxcutter clenched in his hand, Dean would have hugged him already. Instead, he slowly pockets his phone – no sudden movements – and swallows, heart in mouth.

'Hey, Cas,' he whispers, voice hoarse from yelling. 'You think you can put that down, baby? Just put it down, it's OK, you don't need it, I promise you don't –' he stretches out a hand, so slow, and Castiel flinches, but doesn't step back, '– just give it to me, I'll take care of it, I'll take care of you, please –'

He slides his palm over Cas's knuckles, the touch feather-light, and as Cas starts to uncurl his fingers, blue eyes wide, Dean reaches up with his other hand and takes the knife away, flinging into the street behind without a backwards glance. Cas makes a noise in the back of his throat, a soft, abortive _ah!,_ and then he collapses, flinging his arms around Dean's neck, face buried in his shoulder.

'I'm sorry,' he gasps, and something in Dean breaks: he lets out a sob and wraps Cas close, just holds him and holds him, both of them shaking, gripping tight as they babble over the top of each other, muffled words into collarbones.

'– so sorry, I didn't, I couldn't, I don't, _Dean_ –'

'– it's all right, I've got you, it's OK, it's all OK –'

As one, they step back into the house. Dean kicks the door shut, skims his hands up Cas's arms to smooth through his hair, fingers trembling with the weight of _almost_. Their gazes lock, and Cas looks _raw_ , more naked than he was in the shower. His lips part, but he doesn't speak, and Dean doesn't, either; he used up all his words on the drive over, knew something was wrong the second Cas started talking about his mom in that weird, flat way, like it wasn't even his voice any more, got straight in the car and drove and begged and yelled and somehow it worked, it fucking _worked_ , he got here in time, and now –

Cas surges up and kisses him, hungry and urgent, and Dean kisses back, gripping Cas's hips.

'I'm sorry,' Cas whispers against his mouth, 'I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry –'

Dean presses their foreheads together, tears slipping down his cheeks. 'Tell me what you need, Cas. I'll do anything, just don't go away, don't do that again –'

'– I won't, I promise, I didn't want to die –' Cas draws a shuddering breath, pulls back to look him in the eye, '– I promise, Dean, I'm not going anywhere, not like that –'

Dean kisses him again, soft and desperate, and Castiel whimpers, clutching at his shirt.

They part just enough to breathe each other, cheeks pressed close, and into their shared warmth, Cas says, 'Come lie down with me?'

'Whatever you want,' Dean whispers, and twines their fingers together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: suicidal ideation, discussion of death, abortive suicide attempt. (Nothing graphic - Cas thinks about killing himself, and Dean talks him down.)


	13. Chapter 13

Cas leads Dean into his room, shoulders hunching at how shabby it looks. The drawer is still on the bed, which makes him remember the boxcutter, and he hurries to fix the bedside table, hands shaking enough that it takes three tries to slide the drawer home. He sits down on the bed, hands folded in his lap, and makes a choked noise of relief when Dean sits next to him, curling an arm around his waist.

'I don't want sex,' Cas mumbles, feeling he should make this clear. He leans into Dean's warm body, feeling his heartbeat start to settle 'Not now, anyway.'

Dean's lips brush his temple. 'Fine with me,' he murmurs. 'You want to get under the covers?'

'Yeah,' says Cas – and then, feeling bold, 'and undressed, too. I mean, if that's – if you – if that's OK –'

'Whatever you want,' Dean says again, and toes his shoes off onto the bedroom floor.

They undress in silence – Cas actually gets a pair of cotton briefs out of his dresser, not wanting to be wholly naked, and puts them on; his other pair are still in the wash at Dean's – and slide into bed together, Cas's head pillowed on Dean's chest. It's a snug fit in the single frame, but worth it a thousand times over for the way Dean's skin is warm against his, the steady drum of his heart under Cas's ear. Their legs tangle, bodies flush, the covers pulled up to Cas's cheek, and it feels like _safe_ and _home_. From time to time, Dean's fingers move along his ribs, stroking softly, or else he lifts his chin and kisses Cas where he can reach, his nose or cheek or temple, and Cas presses even closer against him, one hand splayed possessively over Dean's bare shoulder, wishing he could leave a mark that says _mine_.

They're silent for so long, time loses all sense of itself. It's a deep quiet, unhurried and unsettled, like lying awake at night when there's nothing to do in the morning. The overhead light is off, but the hall light is on and the door ajar, so everything's washed in silver shades, like the underside of a raincloud. It's peaceful in a way that makes Cas ache, to think that he nearly gave it up, and it could be twenty minutes or eighty before he says, softly, 'I've never had someone like you before.'

Dean shifts position, moving just enough that they can look at each other, and Cas's breath catches in his throat, because Dean is good-looking even from a distance, but up close –

'You're beautiful, Dean,' Cas says. His hand moves up Dean's collarbone to gently cup his cheek. Dean's eyes widen; his lips part on a quiet inhale, and Castiel lets his thumb fall down, tracing across his mouth. 'Everyone sees you. We can't _not_ , you're so – it's like there's a light in you that won't go out, and I tried, I tried so hard not to see it, because if I let myself want you, it was just one more thing that I'd never get to have, and I was just...' He trails away, dropping his gaze – or tries to, anyway.

But Dean won't let him. Instead, he lifts up Cas's chin, his broad hand warm on Cas's jaw, and says, 'You're not _just_ anything, Cas. You never were,' and kisses the edge of his thumb.

 

*

 

Cas goes still in Dean's arms, but the look that spreads over his face is one of astonished hope.

'You really want this,' Cas says, wonderingly. 'You really... god. You want me. You want _me_?'

'I want you.'

Cas huffs with laughter. 'Are you a masochist?'

'Possibly.' Dean strokes his neck, smiling. 'Maybe I'm just a Cas-ochist.'

Cas groans. 'God, you're a dork,' he says, fondly – and then, breath hitching just a little, 'But you're _my_ dork.'

'Definitely your dork,' Dean says, and leans in to kiss the corner of his mouth. More quietly, he says, 'I mean it, Cas. I know your life isn't easy, and I'm not gonna pretend that my dad – that _anything_ about my dad is easy, either, but you're worth it, you're worth so damn much, and if you ever feel like that again, like you want to – to _stop_ –' he falters over the word, has to choke it out, '– you call me again, OK? Wherever you are, you call me, and I'll come.'

'I believe you,' Cas whispers, and Dean pulls him tight again, presses his forehead to Cas's shoulder and breathes in the clean, sharp scent of him. Their hips align, and his cock gives an interested twitch, but Dean ignores it, wanting just to be close. Well, if he's honest, he wants more than that, but Cas said no sex, and no way is Dean going to poke at a limitation like that – not now, not ever. And yet there's something niggling at him from earlier, the way Cas was when he knelt in the bathroom, like maybe they'd both been remembering the bar, and all at once, Dean knows what he wants to say, though he's slightly embarrassed to say it.

'Cas?' he asks, not lifting his head. His eyelashes flutter against Cas's throat.

'Yeah?'

'I, uh. With sex, you know, I'm happy to wait, I don't ever want you to feel like you have to do anything you don't want, and if we start and you want to stop, that's OK, too – I mean, _obviously_ it's OK, I just want to make sure you know that _I_ know it's OK –'

'Dean,' says Cas, sounding mildly amused, 'not that I don't appreciate the sentiment, but why –'

'– but when – but _if_ we do,' says Dean, cheeks heating as he continues, 'I'd like, um, if you wanted – I'd want you to fuck me. To top,' he adds, in case that wasn't clear enough, then presses his face abashedly into Cas's shoulder and mumbles, 'But only if you want.'

Cas inhales sharply. ' _Jesus_ , Dean,' he breathes. 'That's – god, yeah, _yes_ , I would really –' he moves against him, and Dean shudders at the realisation that Cas is hard, too, '– _really_ enjoy that. Yes.' And he mouths at Dean's throat where it joins his shoulder, teeth pressing down as he sucks a hickey into the skin.

Dean makes an unintelligible noise, gasping as Cas rolls him onto his back and kisses him soundly, rutting down against him. His blue eyes are blown wide, and the look on his face is awe and hunger, reverence and need.

'Cas,' Dean pants, his every nerve alight, 'I didn't mean – we don't have to –'

Cas drops his head and licks the sensitive skin behind Dean's ear, which – holy _god_. He actually _moans_ , back bowing up off the bed, completely helpless.

'I know,' Cas whispers, nipping at his throat. 'I know what I said. But I am, shall we say, _reconsidering_ , in light of new information.'

'I can live with that,' Dean gasps, and Cas's answering smile is the best thing he's ever seen.


	14. Chapter 14

He's thought about it before; of course he has, and not just because Dean Winchester is a regular star in his masturbatory fantasies. Cas has imagined having him, and being had by him, with a detail and frequency rivalled only by his thoughts about Chris Evans, and even then, Dean still comes out ahead. But what he hasn't thought about – or rather, what he tries very hard not to think about, being as how it constitutes dangerous emotional territory – is the fact that, for all the times he's sold himself, he still has one virginity left to lose.

And Dean just offered to take it.

Or, shit. Be taken _by_ it? Is that a thing? That's the fucking problem with virginity as a concept, Cas thinks, flicking his tongue against Dean's nipple: it's all about loss from _cock taking_ as opposed to _cock giving_ , and where that leaves most lesbians he doesn't know, but the idea that you might _gain_ something from it instead – like self-respect, maybe, or hope – never seems to rate a mention.

Dean gasps, his fingers scraping lightly against Cas's scalp as he mouths down his chest. He's all-over freckled and golden, and when he obligingly lifts his hips for Cas to tug his boxers off, he's only a little paler underneath.

'Cas, hey,' Dean says, a gulp in his voice. 'Hey, are you sure?'

Cas looks up, his palms still flat to Dean's thighs. Dean is panting, propped on his elbows, green eyes wide, and it's not like Cas didn't trust him already – shit, after the past few days, he can't think of anyone he trusts more – but all at once, he's hit with a sense of absolute faith and certainty that just about undoes him. Dean has helped him, held him, _defended_ him, and never once passed judgement; he's lost his friends and maybe even his father for Cas's sake, and still, when Cas broke down and fled, it was Dean who came running, Dean who took the knife from his hand; Dean, who's still trying to make sure he's OK, instead of just jumping him –

_Shit._

'Are you?' Cas asks, softly.

Dean hesitates, and it's all the answer Cas needs. He's still aroused as hell, it's not like his dick can downshift at the drop of a hat, but he slides back up Dean's body and kisses him, deep and gentle, to let him know it's OK.

'This is not,' Cas says, 'the back seat of a police car.'

Dean blinks dazedly up at him. 'Huh?'

'That's where I was, my first time,' Cas murmurs, shifting to lie alongside Dean. They fit together like puzzle pieces, knees and arms and wrists. 'The back seat of a police car. It was rushed, but he didn't hurt me, and I guess it was good, but that's not –' he sucks in breath, forces himself to look at Dean, '– god, I want this, but I don't want to rush you, either. You deserve better than that. And I think... I think maybe I do, too. Better than rushing, that is, not better than you. I _couldn't_ do better than you, not in a million years, but I've only got the one first left to lose.'

It takes a second for Dean to catch the inference, but when he does, his eyes widen. 'You've never topped? Not even with a girl?'

Cas smiles. 'I'm gay, Dean.'

'Oh. Oh, right. Yeah.' Dean licks his lips, which is stupidly distracting, and says, in a very small voice, 'But you're not, I mean – is this okay? A minute ago, you were all –' he waves a hand, '– and now we're just –'

'Listen,' says Cas, and there's a shake in his voice that shuts Dean right up. He lifts his hand, thumb brushing gently along Dean's jaw, and tries to find the right words. 'I don't know what you see in me. No, don't interrupt, I'm not fishing for compliments, I'm just – you've given up a lot, put up with a lot, to even get me here, and I'm ten pounds of issues in a five pound bag on a good day, Dean, that's just a statement of fact, and it's gonna take me a while to get used to the idea that I get to have any of this, really have it, you know? But I trust you.' He pauses, the truth of it starbursting through him, and warms at the way Dean smiles. 'I trust you, and I want you, and I want to do this right, or as right as I'm capable of doing it, and that means you get a better first time than I did. _Way_ better, OK? Because it's – it'll be overwhelming, and it takes time, and you want, you really want to be comfortable and relaxed, and – have you ever even fingered yourself before?'

The question pops out of its own accord, and Dean turns tomato-red and whispers, 'A little,' like he's still half-ashamed to admit it, and that's when Cas knows for sure he's made the right call, because he wants to work Dean up to this – hell, he needs to work _himself_ up to this – and jumping right to the endgame won't do either one of them any favours, even and especially when it's all he knows how to do. So Cas curls closer to him, kisses the corner of Dean's mouth, and murmurs, 'God, that's hot,' which seems to be the right thing to say; Dean chases his lips and kisses back, and they settle into each other, slow and easy, like stoking a fire from embers.

Dean cups the back of Cas's neck, fingers toying with the curls of his hair, and Cas runs his fingertips over the smooth, warm skin of Dean's ribs. It's both less and infinitely more than anything he's ever done, and for the first time, he understands that, while sex can be intimate as well as impersonal, it's also not the only form of intimacy that matters. Cas wants to be close to Dean, and what they did in the shower is definitely part of that, but this is, too – just this, where they lie together in Cas's bed, building trust through touches that ask questions rather than demanding answers, and without quite meaning to, Cas asks, softly, 'Stay?'

Dean laughs, one palm curled possessively over the curve of Cas's ass, and says, 'Does it look like I'm going anywhere?' And then, before Cas can answer, he leans in and sucks a gentle kiss at the top of his throat. 'I'm staying, Cas,' he murmurs. 'And not just tonight.'

And Castiel believes him.

 

*

 

In the end, they settle for stroking each other off, which is never going to get old, then spend the next few hours curled up in bed, watching movies on Cas's old laptop. Dean texts his mom to let her know Cas is OK and that he's staying over, and receives permission to do so – which, under the circumstances, both is and isn't surprising – and then they order pizza. Dean pays for it himself, and Cas doesn't argue, though he makes a point of setting a few slices aside for Alfie. They eat in Cas's room, even though they have the house to themselves, and start on _The Winter Soldier_ , arguing the whole way through about romance in the MCU.

'You can't argue with Stucky,' says Dean, a little thrilled to be able to voice an opinion he's previously had to keep to himself. 'I mean, come on. Their entire relationship is like Brokeback with superheroes.'

Cas snorts, resting his head on Dean's shoulder. 'I can argue with it plenty. Steve Rogers is totally boning Tony Stark.'

'Oh, yeah, because _that_ makes sense.' Dean rolls his eyes, shifting his arm to pull Cas closer. 'Stark is with Banner, and Pepper is dating Black Widow.'

'Pepper and Natasha, I grant you. But Stark and Banner are science bros, not boyfriends.'

'Can't they be both?'

'They could be, but they're not.'

'Because Iron Man is dating Captain America.'

'Right.'

'Did you even watch _The First Avenger_?' Dean asks, slightly incredulous. 'It's right there in the script! Bucky Barnes calls Steve a punk, which was forties slang for a gay dude. He uses it like a _pet name_. How much more explicit can you get?'

'Apart from them actually kissing on camera?' Cas asks, wryly.

Dean grins. 'Apart from that.'

Cas goes quiet a moment. 'I get Steve with Bucky, but not with the Winter Soldier.'

'Huh?' Dean blinks at him, puzzled. 'What's the difference? They're literally the same person.'

'They're not, though,' Cas insists. 'Bucky was charming and fun and kind, but the Soldier is basically broken. He doesn't even remember himself, and Steve Rogers is this perfect guy, you know? It's like, the whole point of Captain America. So why the hell would he settle for someone that damaged?' And he shrugs, like it's no big deal; like he hasn't just missed a fundamental part of Cap's personality.

Dean opens his mouth to protest – then stops, looking slowly between Cas, who's absently chewing a fingernail, and the laptop screen, where the Winter Soldier is shuddering through a torture-mindwipe session. _Oh_ , he thinks, heart twisting, and says, as carefully as he can, 'Good people don't care what's been done to somebody, Cas. They care about who you are.'

'Yeah, but –' Cas says, then breaks off, looking from Dean to the movie and back again, like he's just had the same epiphany. He licks his lips and says, tentatively, 'It's possible I might be projecting.'

'You're not broken, Cas.'

'And you're not Captain America,' Cas snaps, flustered, but there's no heat in it, and Dean doesn't take the least bit of offence.

'Obviously,' he says, dropping a kiss on Cas's temple. 'I'm way hotter.'

'Obviously,' Cas agrees, and the total lack of sarcasm wrongfoots Dean for a good three seconds, because wait, _what?_

'Are you serious right now?'

'What?' Cas blinks at him, utterly guileless. 'Dean, do you even own a mirror?'

'Yeah, but Chris Evans –'

'Chris Evans is hot,' says Cas, with sober authority, 'but he's not you. Plus and also, he's never bought me pizza.'

Dean is actually lost for words, but Cas doesn't seem to mind. He grins happily, like he's won a point, snuggles back into Dean's side, and goes back to watching the movie.

The silence lasts all of a minute before Dean smiles, presses a kiss to Cas's ear, and murmurs, 'Hey, Bucky. Want a blowjob?'

Castiel chokes on air.

'Is that a yes?' Dean asks, slyly.

'You really want to?'

'I really do.'

'God yes,' Cas breathes, the last syllable vanishing as Dean leans over and kisses him. They're both still in their boxers, and rather than lie lengthwise down the bed, Dean guides Cas to the edge and then gets on his knees, heart pounding in anticipation. He's gone down on girls before, and had them go down on him in turn, but he's never tried with a guy before, and the prospect of doing it now, with Cas, is stupidly arousing. Fingers trembling, Dean pulls Cas's boxers down, drinking in the sight of him.

And then he leans in, looking breathlessly up at Cas, and starts to suck his cock.

It's an amateur effort; even Dean knows that. His jaw isn't used to stretching that way, it's sloppy, and he's not quite sure what to do with his hands when he isn't bringing them into play, but that doesn't stop it from being the single hottest thing he's ever done. It's not just the gorgeous noises he draws from Cas, although – holy _Christ –_ they certainly help; it's that the act itself turns him on in a wholly unexpected way, and when Cas runs a hand through his hair and gives an experimental tug, he outright moans, trying to take him deeper, faster.

'Holy fuck,' Cas gasps, 'Dean, I'm –'

He comes before he can finish the sentence, and Dean surprises them both by swallowing. It actually doesn't taste too bad, and as he pulls off, he grins up at Cas and says, in a dazed, fucked-out voice, 'Oh, I liked that.'

' _You_ liked it?' Castiel pants, not sounding much better. He flops back, laughing. 'Sweet Jesus, there is a god.'

'Blasphemy will get you everywhere,' Dean mumbles, and climbs back onto the bed, pulling Cas against his chest. 'As will reciprocal orgasms.'

'Nice use of the word reciprocal,' Cas smirks, reaching down to stroke him. Dean groans, arching into the touch. 'The SATs would be proud.'

He's so turned on, he doesn't last long, coming hard across his chest with a flick of Cas's wrist. Somehow, Dean finds the energy to stumble out to the bathroom and clean himself up, and when he comes back, Cas is waiting for him under the covers, smiling as he proffers the last of the pizza. _The Winter Soldier_ is still playing, and as Dean slides in beside him, he's overwhelmed with a feeling of perfect contentment. Screw Roy and his dad, and fuck what anyone else might say about him being bi: Castiel Novak is worth it, and if it takes him the rest of his life, Dean's going to make sure that his boyfriend knows it, too.

 


	15. Chapter 15

'So,' says Alfie, grinning at Cas over dinner on Sunday night. 'Your boyfriend seems nice.'

'Yeah,' says Cas, who's too pleased at Alfie's acceptance of Dean to resent discussing his love life with his eight-year-old brother. Instead, he smiles. 'He really is.'

Dean only left an hour ago, Mary having drawn the line at letting him stay a third night in a row. As supportive as she's being, the Saturday sleepover was only allowed on the condition that they went to the free clinic together on Sunday, which made for a weirdass sort of quasi-date, but it still wasn't even half as awkward as Cas had worried it would be, and they made out in the park afterwards, so all in all, he's calling it a win.

(Alfie, thank god, spent the day at Kevin's, thereby sparing Cas the necessity of lying about their plans. Bless the Tran family forever and ever, amen, and especially Linda Tran, who seems to want to kidnap Alfie for the express purpose of feeding him up and helping him do his homework. Cas wants to buy the woman a fucking fruit basket.)

'You guys hung out all weekend?' Alfie asks – innocently, but with a touch of curiously scrunched eyebrow that suggests Cas is going to have to give him The Talk sooner rather than later, especially if he plans on having Dean over again while Alfie's there, too.

'Yeah,' says Cas, and taps Alfie's plate with his knife. 'Hey, eat your carrots. Vegetables are important.'

'Carrots suck,' Alfie grumbles, but he eats them anyway. He chews, swallows, then says, with unusual hesitance, 'Cas?'

'Mm?'

'You're OK, right?'

Castiel freezes, a portion of chicken breast halfway to his mouth. He looks at Alfie, whose eyes are huge and worried and loving, and slowly sets down his fork. He wants to deflect the question, ask why he's asking, shrug it off, _something_ , but he just can't do it. Not any more.

Hoarsely, he says, 'I wasn't. Not for a while. But I – I'm getting better. I _am_ better, now. And maybe I'll still have bad days or whatever, but yeah, Alfie, I'm OK.' And as he says it, he realises it's true, and exhales, suddenly lighter. 'I'm OK.'

Without warning, Alfie leaps up out of his chair, ducks around the table and all but tackles Cas sideways, he hugs him so hard. Cas lets out a startled laugh – goddamit, he's _not_ going to cry – and says, 'Hey, what –'

'I love you,' Alfie whispers, almost inaudible against his shirt. 'You're a good brother. You're _my_ big brother, and I love you, OK?'

'Love you too, monster,' Cas mumbles, heart twisting in his chest.

He doesn't cry. He _doesn't_.

And then Alfie lets go, and grins at him, and they finish their dinner, and Cas chuffs him about brushing his teeth before bedtime, and Alfie moans about how the cheap toothpaste tastes like feet, which Cas privately agrees with but can't admit because _dental hygiene is important, Alfie_ , but somehow it all gets done, and then Cas is alone in his room, in his bed, which feels so much emptier than it ever has before, because Dean isn't there, and that's when it hits him, for maybe the first time in his life: _I have a future_. It's like opening a box inside himself he didn't know was there, and finding it full of treasures. One day, not too far from now, he's going to finish school. He'll get a real job, or go to college, or maybe travel a bit, and yeah, he'll miss Alfie like hell, but he doesn't have to stay in this town forever, he doesn't have to sell himself, there are still good people in the world, and maybe – just maybe – Castiel gets to call one of them his.

Shaking, smiling, brave with love, he shoves back the covers, pads over to his desk, pulls out a battered Spirex notebook, and starts to write.

The end product takes over two hours. He has to keep stopping to get his thoughts in order, has to shake the nerves from hands that cramp against the desk-edge, around the pen; has to rewrite the whole thing a second time, because the first draft has so many crossings out, and then again, a third time, because he made even more changes. Typing would be easier, but this is a promise he's making, a spell he's crafting, an augury and an omen: it has to be tangible, real, and when he's done, he signs it, dates it, kisses it, and then – heart beating wildly – he pricks the pad of his thumb with a safety-pin, lets a drop of blood well up, and presses his mark there, too, because Jesus, he means it, he means every damn word of it, and if that's not the most terrifying fucking thing in the world – if that's not worth a little blood – he doesn't know what is.

And then he tears the page from the notebook, folds it three times, and tucks it away in his copy of _The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_ for safekeeping.

Dazed and happy, Cas climbs back into bed, staring up at his ceiling like he's never seen it before. His phone buzzes on the nightstand: a two-word text from Dean.

_Miss you._

Castiel smiles and hits reply.

_I miss you, too._

 

*

 

Monday morning, Dean meets Cas a block from school, his stomach knotted with nerves. They talked about it over the weekend, how neither of them wants to hide that they're together, and screw what the rumour mill thinks. Cas's bruises are fading, but still visible; his ears are pierced with safety pins, his black jeans are ripped, and his dark blue hoodie is frayed at the hems. He's slouching against a telegraph pole, looking faintly bored, but as soon as he spots Dean, his face lights up, and Dean forgets to be anxious, because Castiel is the single most gorgeous thing he's ever seen.

'Hey,' he says, grinning stupidly.

'Hey yourself,' says Cas, and pulls him in for a kiss. Dean presses him up against the pole, hands cradling his face, and god, this is real, _they're doing this_ , and the world can go fuck itself.

When they finally pull apart, Dean drops his hands and smooths them over Cas's hips. 'Ready to make a scene?' he asks, a little breathlessly.

Cas laughs, and the sound is music. 'Baby, I was _born_ ready.'

And together, they start to walk.

The rumours outpace them in minutes, and Dean doesn't care. By the time they're walking through the school gates – Cas's arm around his waist, Dean's arm around his shoulder – there's practically a crowd waiting. One or two kids have cellphones out, taking photos. Dean just grins at everyone, daring them to comment, and to his surprise and astonishment, most people grin back. They pass Bela, and she raises one eyebrow, gives Cas a considering look, and then smiles her approval; several of his soon-to-be-ex-teammates gawk, looking shaken or disgusted, but a couple just look surprised, and for every offended student, there's five who look cheered, or impressed, or some other flavour of don't-give-a-shit-but-hey-it's-a-free-country, and Cas does this funny little huff-snort, like he doesn't know whether to be amused or insulted, and bumps their heads together.

'What the _fuck_ , Winchester?'

It's Roy's voice, loud and angry. They share a look, an eyeroll, a sigh, and as they turn to face him, Cas reaches up to take Dean's hand and lace their fingers together.

'You got a problem, Roy?' Dean asks, and every student in earshot goes dead quiet. 'Also, before you answer that, you should know I'm quitting the team today. Not because I've got a boyfriend now –' a ripple of murmurs at the word, '– but because you guys are a bunch of bullying asshats, and I kinda hate spending time with you. No offence.'

'Yeah, like we'd want a fucking fag on the team,' Roy sneers, ignoring the background laughter at Dean's comment, but it's clear he's feeling wrongfooted, and Dean is glad all over again that he and Cas already planned this out. He doesn't want to play football any more, but he doesn't want people to think his teammates made him quit because of Cas, or that the school did, either. This way, even if everyone still thinks he was jumping before he was pushed, at least nobody can argue that it wasn't on his terms, or say that Roy spooked him into it. From the corner of his eye, he sees at a skinny kid getting the whole thing on video, and for once, he's glad about it.

Cas laughs, a gravelly rasp, and says, 'You spend your free time wrestling with guys in tight pants, then showering with them afterwards. Naked. Pretend all you want, but the _no homo_ train has well and truly left the fucking station.'

More laughter; Roy goes red in the face and storms towards them, and Dean's on the brink of moving to defend them both when, of all people, Meg Masters steps straight into Roy's path and says, in a voice pitched to carry, 'My dad's a lawyer, asshole. Touch either one of them, and I'll get you charged with a hate crime.'

And that brings Roy up short, because Meg might be a weird kid, she might be a stoner punk like Castiel who hangs out under the bleachers and spends more time outside the principal's office than in gym class, but everyone knows her dad is a prosecutor and scary as all hell; other lawyers call him Azazel, like he's a _literal fucking demon_ , and Roy might be stupid, but the only unfair fights he likes are the ones in his favour. The crowd isn't with him, there's cellphones everywhere, and Meg just stands there, hands on her hips, and stares him down like she's queen of the world.

'Whatever,' Roy growls, and stalks away to the sound of actual cheering.

Dean grips Cas's hand, and tries not to melt when his boyfriend kisses his cheek and murmurs, 'See? That wasn't so bad.'

Meg picks that moment to turn and look them over, much the way Bela did. She smirks at Cas, who returns the favour, then pins Dean with a smile like a cutthroat razor.

'Don't get me wrong,' she says, 'Clarence here is a weed-stealing shit with terrible taste in music, but if you break his heart, I'll break your balls. Capiche?'

'Capiche,' says Dean, fervently.

'Why, Meg,' Cas drawls, 'I didn't know you cared.'

Meg rolls her eyes. 'Shut up, Clarence.' But she flashes her dimples all the same, then strides away, hair swishing in victory.

Confrontation over, the crowd starts to dissipate. 'You all right?' Cas asks, softly.

Dean thinks of his dad, and he thinks of his mom. He thinks of Sam and Jo and Alfie, of Bela and Meg; of falling asleep in Cas's arms, a kiss on the nape of his neck. He knows it's going to be tough at times, but up until now, his life has been pretty damn easy, and all he's got to show for it is a bunch of asshole ex-friends and a couple of football trophies. What he wants with Cas is hard, but it's real, and it's theirs, and he wouldn't change it for anything.

'Never better,' he says, and kisses him.

And damned if it isn't true.

 


	16. Epilogue

_Ten Years Later_

 

Dean paces the apartment, sweating into his shirt. Cas has been weird all week – all month, if Dean's honest with himself – and given that it's their anniversary tomorrow, he's starting to freak the hell out. Granted, their anniversary is always a little odd, given the deeply fucked-up circumstances under which they first started dating, which is why they decided years ago to celebrate on the day they came out at school together, and not on the day they actually hooked up. But even by his usual standards – and Dean's had a decade of ups and downs in which to learn his partner's eccentricities – Cas has been acting strangely. Not snappish, the way he gets when he's stressed at work, and not indrawn, the way he gets when he's worried or triggered, but distractable, elusive, hesitant.

The last time he got this way was just over five years ago, when Dean was offered – and accepted – his current job. Cas, not wanting to move halfway across the country in the last year of his degree and terrified that they wouldn't survive long-distance, dealt with the crisis by breaking up with him, pre-empting the most miserable six months of Dean's life. The fact that Cas subsequently showed up on his doorstep less than twelve hours after taking his final exam, red-eyed and swaying from exhaustion, to declare that he was a fucking idiot and please, please could they try again does nothing to reassure him now. That six months without Cas nearly killed him, and that was back when he could still pretend that it only hurt so much because he didn't know anything else; that maybe, if he just screwed enough people, he'd somehow get over it.

But Dean knows better now. He'll do anything, say anything, to make the other man stay – god, he can't _breathe_ at the thought of losing Cas, and what if it's all his fault? What if the signs have been there for months, and he's just now catching up? What if he's been so wrapped up with work and his own petty bullshit that he's been letting Cas slide back into a dark place, what if he hasn't been affectionate enough, what if –

The apartment door clicks open, and Cas walks in, looking pale and tortured. His dark hair sticks up the way it only does when he's been running his fingers through it, over and over; his trenchcoat is rumpled, the suit underneath it the same one he's worn all week, despite the fact that it's Dean's and doesn't even fit him to begin with.

'Hi,' says Dean, a lump in his throat.

'Hey,' says Cas. He sounds utterly wrecked, and it's only when he stretches out his hand that Dean realises he's holding something, a crumpled, faded square of paper, which – what? He stares at it, awash with confusion, because it's clearly notebook paper, not a receipt or anything important like that, and no matter how pissed at him Cas might be, there's no fucking way his partner of ten years is going to end things by passing him a _note_ , like they're middleschoolers at summer camp.

Fingers trembling, Dean takes the paper, and when Cas rasps at him, 'Read it. Please,' he's helpless to disobey. It's a letter, crumpled and stained, written in the tight, clean script that's unmistakeable Cas's – but not, he realises with a jolt, the Cas standing opposite him. Cas-now writes with a lighter hand, his serifs soft rather than spiked. This letter is the handiwork of Cas-then, his teenage self, and when Dean checks the top lefthand corner, his mouth goes dry to see it's dated exactly ten years ago, to the day.

'Cas,' he whispers, awed, and starts to read.

 

*

 

_Dear Dean,_

_Today is the first day of the rest of my life._

_That's such a cliché, but it's true. On Friday I wanted to die, and you kept me alive. Tonight Alfie hugged me and told me he loved me, that I was a good brother, and without you, that wouldn't have happened, because I wouldn't have been here. I've done so many ugly things, Dean, but you don't see me that way. You make me feel clean and right and worthy, like I have choices in life; like I can grow up and leave this place, the way my mother never did._

_Like I can take you with me._

_I'm seventeen. We both are. And I know, I know how crazy this sounds, I know I'm all fucked up, and I know I can't make who I am dependent on you, because that's not fair to either of us, but I also know I love you. I think maybe I always have, deep down, since the first time I ever saw you; since maybe even before then, if that's possible. And tomorrow, you're going to be brave for me, which means tonight, I can be brave for you._

_Life is hard. I know that. Hell, I barely know anything else. I know people break up all the time, I know most high school relationships don't last more than a month, and you deserve someone so perfect, Dean, I'm not even sure I can ever be that person, but I want to try, because I want you. Just you. And maybe we'll break up in a week, and I'll feel like the biggest dork and probably burn this letter, and maybe we'll break up right after graduation, or in college, and maybe we'll break up more than once, but you gave me my life back, Dean, you gave me my brother and tomorrow and all the tomorrows after it, and I want to share them with you._

_So I'm going to keep this letter. I'm giving us a decade: ten years to figure out if we fit in each other's lives or not, if I can be someone you'd want to spend the rest of your life with. Because that's what I want, Dean. I just want you, forever and always, and I know how that sounds, me writing it now, but I feel, tonight –_

_I feel like I have a future. A real one, not just an endless now, and assuming we get that far together – assuming you still want me, that we find our way back to each other – I want you to know that, whatever's happened between my tonight and whenever you are now, I've always loved you, and I always will. If you're reading this, it's because I've spent ten years holding onto something I wrote in our first week together, because I want to believe – I hope – I have faith – that what I'm feeling now is real. That you're the best thing that's ever happened to me. That we're worth the risk. That maybe I do deserve to grow up, and be happy, and have a life with you, and because, if there's even the tiniest chance I'm right, I want there to be proof of it, that I_ knew _. I want to be able to look back on tonight and think that, however many mistakes I've made, doubting us wasn't one of them._

_So, in this future, we're twenty-seven years old, and being of sound mind and body, with the blessing of my seventeen-year-old self, I, Castiel James Novak, am asking you, Dean Winchester, to marry me._

_Please say yes._

 

*

 

Cheeks wet with tears, Dean finally wrenches his gaze from the letter and back to Cas, who looks like he's poised on some agonising precipice between hope and heartbreak.

'I'm sorry I've been distant,' Cas says, his voice gone raw. 'I'd kept it so long, read it so many times, I wasn't sure if it was creepy or inappropriate or just plain bad, but I still wanted to give it to you, I wanted you to know –'

'Yes,' Dean croaks.

Cas's voice cracks on the echo. 'Yes?'

'God, you dork, of course it's yes, I love you so damn much, _yes_ –'

And then they're kissing, hard and sweet so fucking perfect, his heart almost hurts with happiness. He drops the letter, takes hold of Cas, and pulls him straight to the bedroom, kissing every inch of his husband-to-be, until both of them come undone, over and over, crying and laughing, _I love you, I love you, I love you_.

Dean never lets go, and Cas never wants him to.

They frame the letter.


End file.
